


The Ghosts We Know

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Denial, Eventual Smut, Excessive Drinking, Fear, First Time, Ghosts, Hauntings, Insomnia, M/M, Mirrors, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Paranoia, Pining, Psychological Horror, Radio static, Slow Burn, emotional memories, emotionally charged sex, insubordinate televisions, repressed sexuality, waking nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rolling on to his other side, Dean makes a vain attempt to get comfortable. Any other night he probably wouldn’t have noticed, but the mattress creaks as he moves. It’s a sharp sound, just a single, solitary squeak, but it rings out in the silence of the room. Dean grimaces; he should replace his mattress too. The empty room swallows up the mattress’s cry and replies with a disembodied “shhhhh”, a hiss that cuts through the silence more sharply than the noise of the mattress, and Dean freezes. His thoughts had been drifting, random and abstract and restless but the sound, the single source of auditory stimulus in the dark, cold room serves to condense his mind into laser focus. Every muscle in his body tenses at once, startled out of his insomniac mental ramblings by a sound that he can’t come up with a rational explanation for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 14th.  3:17 am

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a work of fiction inspired heavily by a nightmare I had years ago. My lovely beta Petrichor_Amber advises me that she wanted very much to sleep with the lights on after reading a few chapters. I'll update the tags for specific chapters in hopes of avoiding anything triggering slipping through for anyone. this fic will update Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays

Dean opens his eyes and glances at the clock again. It feels like he’s been lying in bed chasing elusive sleep for days on end, but the neon digits on the nightstand tell a different story. Less than an hour has passed since he last checked the time. Dean rolls over, turning his back to the clock, and cocoons himself under the blankets. His room has been cold lately. The weather had taken a turn a few weeks back and no matter how warm the rest of his apartment felt, no matter how much he huddled himself under the blankets, the bedroom just would not stay warm. The chill seeps into his bones like worms eating their way through rotting meat, ignoring all attempts to ward it off with disdain and settling into the depths with a determination that he’d almost respect if it didn’t set his teeth to chattering and his mind to racing. Cas says he should buy a space heater. One of those electric things with a timer and he could set it before he went to bed. Just to take the edge off. Cas says he should move to a less shitty apartment. He should do a lot of things. He isn’t likely to do any of them.

Tomorrow morning was going to be difficult. Actually, it was already tomorrow, if you wanted to get technical. Work was going to be difficult. Dean didn’t have a reputation for being a morning person on the best of days, when he got a full night’s sleep and didn’t waste hours staring at the ceiling for no identifiable reason. When he didn’t sleep, he was unmanageable. Maybe he could find some side project to work on in the shop, something that kept him away from customers and the rest of the staff. Everyone would be better off for it. Rebuild something in the back of the garage, or organize spare parts. Hell, he’d even take an office project if it meant he could keep a steady refill on his coffee cup. Dean stifles a yawn because once, he read that predators in the wild yawned before a hunt to make themselves more alert, and the last thing he wants is to feel more alert right now.

Dean’s pillow is lumpy. He punches it, and the lumps don’t respond. He punches it again anyway and toys with the idea of getting out of bed. It’s not like he’ll get any real sleep tonight anyway, even if he falls asleep right this minute and sleeps straight through until his alarm. Even that feels like too much effort, though. The couch is so far away, and he is just plain exhausted by this point in time. _Three hours and forty minutes. No. Don’t count how long you have left. That always makes it worse._ Now that he’s done the math though, it’s inescapable. Three hours and forty turns in to three hours and twenty turns into three hours and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. _Oh look at the clock, look how little time I have left, I am going to be so tired in the morning, that’s not enough time to get a deep sleep, I’ll be so groggy, so groggy, so tired…_

Rolling on to his other side, Dean makes a vain attempt to get comfortable. Any other night he probably wouldn’t have noticed, but the mattress creaks as he moves. It’s a sharp sound, just a single, solitary squeak, but it rings out in the silence of the room. Dean grimaces; he should replace his mattress too. The empty room swallows up the mattress’s cry and replies with a disembodied “shhhhh”, a hiss that cuts through the silence more sharply than the noise of the mattress, and Dean freezes. His thoughts had been drifting, random and abstract and restless but the sound, the single source of auditory stimulus in the dark, cold room serves to condense his mind into laser focus. Every muscle in his body tenses at once, startled out of his insomniac mental ramblings by a sound that he can’t come up with a rational explanation for.

It could have been the radiator, he reasons. Those things make hissing noises sometimes right? It could have been the neighbour’s cat on the fire escape. It could have been something in his closet, a box or a bag or some other discarded treasure, something precariously placed that had chosen that exact moment to shift and slide and settle. It could have been something _else_ in his closet. It could have been that freaky dead girl from the horror movie he watched three weeks ago, the one in the video, crawling across his bedroom floor because what if the DVD was cursed just like the video in the movie and what if that’s how he died, what if he died tonight, in this room, because he watched that movie or what if….

Dean laughs into his pillow. Now he’s just getting ridiculous. Sleep deprivation is starting to make him behave like a mad man. Of course it wasn’t a thing from a movie. It didn’t really matter what caused it. It was a single, solitary, innocuous noise in the night, and there was no sense in dwelling on it. The noise didn’t mean anything. He flips away from the clock again, ignoring the glaring accusations of his clock radio and steeling himself for the awful morning ahead of him. The mattress groans in protest, just as before, such a soft, mundane noise, and then he hears it again.

“SHHHHH”

It’s louder this time, sharper, and his blood runs cold. The first time, the rational part of his brain (what little of it hadn’t been eroded by lack of sleep), had tried to tell him that perhaps there wasn’t even a noise at all. Perhaps he imagined it. Perhaps his brain was so desperate for sleep, he was awake and dreaming. Perhaps it was just an auditory hallucination. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But the second hiss was so much more tangible. He heard it with his ears but he felt the breath of it on his skin and he felt the malice of it in his bones. Dean is a man grown, a functional adult with a very well-adjusted concept of what was real and what was imaginary, thank you very much. But in that moment, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and a crawling, creeping sense of dread takes him back to the part of his childhood where he’d been terrified of the things that lived in his closet and under his bed and in his imagination, he’s forced to acknowledge something he’d recant in the daylight. He is not alone in this room.

Dean’s heart races. He’d read in a textbook, sometime years ago, when he read non-fiction because he had to instead of fiction because he wanted to, about the fight or flight response. Adrenaline and synapses and hardwired psychological coding and instinct and evolution and survival. He’d read that when faced with a source of fear, that’s the decision the body would make; attack the source or flee the threat. Dean decides there’s a third category, right now comprised only of him. Fight or flight or paralysis. It was rational, he reasons, because it wasn’t a cop-out if he could reason it away. Both times the voice had hissed at him, he’d rolled over and made the mattress creak. All he had to do was stay still. He just had to lie there, immobile, and breathe his way through the rampant panic and the irrational terror, until he could convince himself to get out of bed. Sure. That makes sense.

Dean focuses all of his energy into breathing. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Sanity in, terror out. He draws long, slow, calming breaths, taking in the chill air of the bedroom. Each measured exhale brings him inches closer to calm. His chest rises, and his jangled nerves smooth out. His chest falls, and little by little, Dean stops being the little boy who’d refused to sleep with the lights off for fear of what hid in the shadows, and starts being the adult who had to get up for work soon.

He has to have fallen asleep, somewhere between the breathing and the blaring of the alarm clock. It’s set to play the radio rather than the obnoxious monotone bleating, because he finds that to be far too jarring first thing in the morning. Some one-hit-wonder 80’s pop band croons out a chorus Dean knows he’s heard somewhere before but couldn’t have named if his life depended on it, and he slaps the snooze button without looking. Seven AM is still dark at this time of year. He flips the light on with the memory of last night’s maybe-events nagging at his mind. He brews coffee, showers, and throws on jeans and a tee and a hoodie and a coat. Half the pot of coffee is gone before he’s putting his boots on. It’s going to be a long day.

 

There are no side projects to be worked on. There are no carburetors to rebuild in the back of the shop, there’s no chance to reorganize the spare parts, no inventory to sort, no paperwork or filing or office tasks he can beg off on. Dean’s stuck changing the brakes on a mid-90’s sedan for the majority of the morning. His mood is dark, when he has the energy to have any mood at all. Mostly he’s flat, grey. Blank. Everything is muscle memory and the afterimage of motion and faking it. It’s lucky he’s changed a million brake-pads in his lifetime. It’s lucky Bobby thinks of him more like a son than an employee. It’s lucky the coffee maker in the waiting room isn’t broken.

Dean scrapes the knuckles of his left hand on the wheel well he’s tucked up under and he bites back a curse, watching with distant eyes as the blood flows out along his fingers, seeping into the grooves of his knuckles and mingling with the black grease and brake dust his hands are already coated in. The pain jars him awake, alert, but he knows it’s only temporary. The adrenaline will fade and he’ll be a ghost of himself again. Dean washes his hand, his cuts, in the bathroom sink. Blood and grease race each other down the drain in red-black-red-black swirls until finally the water runs clear. The back of a hand is such a hard place to bandage. He wraps it in too much gauze and pulls a latex glove out of the first aid kit to cover whole mess. The fingers of the glove will be shredded before long, but it will keep the brake dust out of his cuts and the gauze will stay relatively clean.

Dean stumbles around all afternoon, taking twice as long as usual to complete basic tasks, answering questions with a vacant look in his eyes. Bobby just grunts at him, but there’s warmth in his eyes when he does it. He’s feeling like he has to keep moving, constantly keep moving, because if he stops then the tenuous hold on consciousness that he’s cultivated over the too-long day will break and he’ll fall down where he stands. He’s like a shark; as long as he keeps swimming, the water keeps flowing through his gills and he can remain alive a little bit longer. By the time the day is over and he can clock out, he feels like a hollow shell of himself. He drives home in a haze, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel, but he’s home now so it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t remember half the turns he took to get there. The route is so deeply ingrained in his mind he doesn’t have to think about it and that’s a bit scary, all things considered.

Dean’s first thought is to skip dinner completely and go right to bed. It’s Friday. He can sleep all day tomorrow if he wants to. Maybe by Saturday afternoon he will start feeling like a person again, instead of spare parts flying in formation. Maybe he’ll sleep the whole weekend away. But as he lies down on the couch, intending to marshal his strength for the final push toward actual bed, he finds that he’s wide awake. He’s still tired, so tired, and sleeping for 36 hours seems like the most appealing thing ever, but his eyes stubbornly refuse to close. He blinks. Maybe if he blinks enough he can trick his eyes into staying closed. Blink, and then just, you know, forget to un-blink. It doesn’t work.

The cell phone in the pocket of his jeans sings out a familiar alert. He knows without looking who it’s from. The name on the screen flashes but he doesn’t look at it. He knows it will say “You have a new message from Assbutt.” He knows the person who sent it is looking at a screen that says they just sent a message to “Douchebag.”

_> >Get your ass over here before I drink all the beer without you._

Dean groans. It’s a Friday night tradition, and all things considered that’s what he’d like to be doing right now, but he’s so tired it physically hurts.

_< <Don’t think I can. Didn’t sleep last night. Barely functional._

He types out his reply and blinks at the bright screen. Cas won’t let him off that easy. The little guy is persistent. He’s never been able to stop thinking of him as “little”, though it’s inaccurate. Maybe ten years ago, in high school, that would be the right adjective. He was scrawny, then. Small and geeky and way too fucking smart for his own good. High school wasn’t easy for either of them. Between Dean’s hard-ass dad, rest his bitter soul, and Castiel’s absent one; between Dean’s intelligence and his unwillingness to apply himself to the work; between Cas’ abundance of book-smarts and lack of street smarts, they’d lived parallel struggles. Their friendship was hard won, but it was something neither man would have made it this far without. Not that they talked about it, of course, but the knowledge was there, just below the surface, a weighty comfort if either ever chose to seek it. Cas has grown up significantly in the intervening space. He’s just a scant inch shorter than Dean now, and a similar build. Dean will probably never stop thinking of him as a weird, dorky little guy, but it’s endearing now, like how Cas always calls him an assbutt. It’s part of the fabric of their friendship. He wouldn’t change a thing.

_> >You’re going to bail on me because you missed your nap? Dean Winchester’s gone soft in his old age._

And Dean can’t let that one slide, because he’s not old, goddamnit, he’s twenty-eight, and he can still out-drink Cas, insomnia or no. And besides, he wants to. He wants to hang out at Cas’ house, and drink Cas’ beer, and watch movies on Cas’ couch.

_< <Bitch. I’ll be there in twenty._

Dean spares himself a minute to change into clean jeans, though these ones were concealed under coveralls all day, and a faded grey tee with the AC/DC logo emblazoned on the front. The logo is peeling from repeated washings and too much love, but it’s exactly the right texture, exactly the right size. Cas has tried to steal this shirt on more than one occasion, although he always pretends it’s an accident. It got in to the wrong duffle bag when they went camping that one summer, though Dean was sharing a tent with Lisa at the time so it’s a stretch to think that happened without any forethought. Any time Cas crashes on the couch here, Dean knows this is the shirt Cas will borrow to sleep in. Can’t blame the guy. It’s a good shirt. Dean’s out the door and in the car in under five minutes. He tells himself he’s rushing because he needs beer like he needs breathing. He tells himself it’s Cas’ company, good company he’s rushing towards. It has nothing to do with the sleep he lost and the apartment he’s leaving behind. It has nothing to do with the feeling he can’t shake, the one that tells him he’s not really alone.

 

The warmth of Cas’ apartment envelops him as soon as his feet cross the threshold. It’s familiar and inviting, and the weight on his shoulders is lifted as he breaths in the clean scent of the place. It’s bleach on the countertops and garlic from whatever Cas made for dinner and the faintest hint of old hardwood in the floorboards. Underneath it all is cinnamon and vanilla and sweetness.

“You baked a pie?” Dean asks as he kicks off his boots in the entryway and joins Cas in the kitchen. There’s a beer in his hand almost instantaneously. The bottle is cold and dewy. Cas is wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron over his jeans and tee shirt.

“And Pizza,” Cas replies, slipping on a pair of oven mitts. The smell of cheese and bacon overpowers the other aromas as he sets the pizza on the counter and shuts the oven off. Dean’s stomach grumbles, and he’s suddenly glad he didn’t skip dinner. “So what the hell Dean? What’s so bad that you almost bailed on Friday?” Cas hands him a plate with two slices of pizza as he leads the way towards the couch.

This is their Friday night tradition. It’s unofficial, of course. It’s not marked on any calendar anywhere and they miss a week here or there, but it’s the cornerstone of their week. Cas usually plays host because he’s a better cook and his apartment is less of a crap-hole, but they’ll hang out at Dean’s place sometimes too. Cas cooks from scratch and some times, like tonight, there’s pie. Dean just orders a pizza and he thinks that maybe that’s why they hang out at Cas’ more often than not. There’s nothing special about it, not really. Just beer and pizza and a movie or two. Just a good thing to anchor the week.

Dean can’t imagine where he’d be without Cas’ friendship and he’s aware that the sentiment is returned. When Dean’s father passed, Cas was the only thing that kept him sane. Dean put his own grief, his own hurt aside to take care of the arrangements, and then he put them aside again to be strong for Sam. The younger Winchester took the loss so hard. Sam never saw the worst of John; never saw how awful he could be when he was on a bender. Dean made sure of that. As a result, Sam grew up idolizing their father, not fearing him. When a drunk driver killed him (Dean pretended not to see the irony there, as John was rarely sober himself, and yet he was that night), Sam hadn’t wrestled with the bitterness and the anger and the frustration that gripped Dean. He’d just mourned the man he’d grown up looking up to. So Dean pushed his own feelings down and sat with Sam while he cried, reminisced with him over the good memories. Sam led that conversation. It’s not that Dean had no good memories; it’s just that they were poisoned with the abundant bad ones. Sam remembered birthdays. Dean remembered splitting his lip on John’s fist the day after his own fourteenth. Sam remembered the one year John was sober enough to hide eggs in the yard on Easter. Dean remembers hiding the bruises on his ribs when he had to change for gym class. And then the funeral was over and Sam flew back to school in California, and Dean was left with an empty apartment and the silence of his own suffering. He didn’t know how to cope. He was devastated at the loss, of course, because a shitty father is still a father. He didn’t like John very much, but he did love him. More importantly though, more tangibly, he was angry. John was dead, so Dean would never get to tell him how many scars he’d left on his oldest son. Dean would never get to tell him how fucked up their childhood was. Dean would never get to hear his father say he was sorry. Cas helped him realize that. It manifested as aimless rage, virulent and seething, but Cas knew him better than he knew himself, and he saw the source of it. He made Dean talk, made him open up, under the guise of a casual drink, or a movie they’d watched a thousand times, or needing help fixing something on the beater Buick he insisted was still entirely driveable. Thanks to Cas, he came out the other side of the loss. He made room for his grief, and learned to live with the knowledge that he’d never get acknowledgement from his father. It was almost like closure. Almost.

“I’m just tired Cas.” He takes a bite of pizza, and is incredibly grateful he didn’t beg out of the evening. Cas is an amazing cook. He considers telling Cas the whole story for a second, but he’s not really sure what he’d say. In the daylight, he’s not entirely certain what he actually remembers. “I think I drank too much coffee yesterday or something. Couldn’t fall asleep.” He’s not really lying to Cas. He really couldn’t sleep. The other thing, if it even happened, came after.

Cas puts on A New Hope. It’s a downloaded version, run through a laptop plugged in to the back of his TV, because Cas refuses to watch the “bastardized” versions with the added graphics and all the things that were never meant to be there. He knows Dean agrees. One day, they’ll release DVD’s of the old cuts, but until then, it’s a pirated version ripped from someone’s old VHS. It’s still better than the alternative. Dean’s three beers in by the time Cas puts a slice of pie on the table in front of him. It’s apple, with a crumble topping, and it’s a beautiful thing. If he didn’t know better, Dean would say that Cas knew he was having a shit day and baked a pie just for him, just to end the day on a good note. The apples are tender but still firm, and it’s got just the right balance of cinnamon and brown sugar. The crust is flaky and perfect. The noises Dean makes around his fork are obscene, and he shoots Cas a look when he hears laughter.

“What? I love pie.” He shrugs and takes another bite. Dean can quote these movies, opening crawl to end credits, line by line. He knows them like he knows his own face. He knows that Han shot first, he knows that when you say you’ve done the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs, you mean you cut it real close, because a parsec is a unit of distance. He knows Carrie Fisher didn’t wear a bra under that white dress because George Lucas said there are no bras in space. He knows the good guys will win. He knows any day he can sit on a comfy couch, warm and safe, with beer and pie, and watch the original trilogy the way it was meant to be seen is a mark in the win column. He manages to stay awake right through the end of Return of the Jedi, although realistically he should have fallen asleep long before then. He falls asleep easily, almost peacefully on Cas’ couch, with a belly full of beer and pizza and pie. The last thought he has before sleep claims him is how much warmer he is here than in his own bed.

 

Dean’s not sure if it’s the smell of coffee, the sizzle of bacon, or the sound of Cas humming from the kitchen that wakes him up. He tries to check the time on his phone, because somewhere in the back of his mind he feels like it’s way too early to be awake, but the battery has died overnight. He drops it on the table and scrubs a tired hand through his close-cropped hair, staring blankly at the ceiling. Dean does a quick status check. Headache: minimal. Nausea: non-existent. Overall feeling of shittiness: moderate. Exhaustion: Pretty much gone. He’s just swinging his legs over the side of the couch when Cas sets a steaming mug of black coffee on the table in front of him. He breathes in the heady aroma, and it assaults his senses. It’s earthy and deep. It’s life and consciousness and salvation. Maybe he’s being dramatic but Dean sincerely does not know how he could live without coffee. It’s just a testament to Cas’ consideration that he’s not even awake for five minutes before the caffeine is provided. That’s just Cas.

 

Dean sips the coffee gratefully. He feels like an entirely new person this morning, as much thanks to sleep as to good company. Caffeine only serves to highlight the difference between his dysfunction the day before and the glorious grasp on reality that had been returned to him by a reasonable number of hours of uninterrupted sleep. He shouldn't feel this good after sleeping on a couch, and he's consciously aware of this but damn if it isn't true. He's downed the full cup of steaming goodness before he knows what’s happening and his feet are carrying him in to the kitchen for a refill he didn't even know he wanted. Cas sings as he moves around the kitchen gracefully, some old tune that Dean hears with half an ear and he thinks he might recognise it if he could just focus for a second but it slips though his fingers like a fistful of sand. It shouldn't bother him but it does.

“Breakfast will only be a few minutes,” Cas announces. He flips a pancake with practiced ease, checking the edges to make sure they're browning evenly and the nod of satisfaction he gives is short and perfunctory. Dean thinks he would have done the same if there were no one here to see it.

“You don't have to make breakfast every time I commandeer your couch, you know,” Dean insists, but he's secretly glad that Cas does. Maybe not so secretly, actually, because Cas laughs at him, boisterous and throaty.

“Of course I don't have to, you moron. No one’s holding a gun to my head. But I like pancakes as much as you do, well, maybe just almost as much, and there's no point in going to all this effort when it's just me.” Cas flaps his hands at Dean, shooing him out of the way with his refilled coffee. “Go. Out of the way, unless you want me to put you to work. Go sit.” Dean complies. It's not that he can't be of use in a food preparation situation, not exactly. His talents extend a lot more toward burgers and tacos and spaghetti, basically anything you can make with ground beef and a little patience. That stuff’s an art. As long as you start with the right ingredients, you can pretty much throw together whatever quantities you want and it's going to turn out good. He’s never been able to wrap his head around the baking though. Leavening agents and the ratio of dry to wet and binders and the cohesion and no. Cas has tried to explain the science of it to him on more than one occasion but it's never stuck. He just doesn't get it. So he's not even going to try to help with pancakes. He’ll just ruin it.

Dean sighs in spite of himself as he sinks his lazy ass into a chair at Cas’ dining room table. He’s such a fucking adult, Castiel is. He’s got matching towels and a dinette set he bought brand new, all the chairs matching and nothing mended with duct tape, a couch that has never sat on a curb side waiting to be adopted. He’s got a décor scheme and an area rug and though Dean’s never really spent much time in Cas’ bedroom except to help move furniture in he still knows that Cas’ dresser matches his nightstand matches his bedframe matches his wardrobe. Dean’s couch looks like someone’s great grandmother abandoned it in the seventies and his night stand is a stolen milk crate and anyone but Cas would make him feel small and insignificant and childish for the fact that his bed is just a box spring and mattress on the floor. Cas doesn’t though. He likes Dean just how he is; and he likes Dean when he changes, too (not that Dean changes much, but if he did, he’s sure Cas would like that Dean just fine.) He’s lost in idle thought when Cas drops himself unceremoniously into the chair across the table and sets a plate stacked high with pancakes and bacon in front of each of them.

“So what the fuck is your problem?” Cas asks casually as he pours a lake’s worth of syrup over the stack of fluffy brown cakes on his plate, letting it run in rivulets down the side. It soaks the bacon in sticky-sweetness and pools on the plate in warm brown splotches.

“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck is your problem?’ I haven’t said two words this morning.” Dean levels a glare at him across the table, but it’s half-hearted. Dean’s not sure if he’s too lazy to get mad or if it’s just that it’s Cas and he can’t really stay mad at the guy.

“I mean yesterday. You never bail on Friday just because you’re tired. If anything you’re more excited about beer when you’ve had a shit week. So…what’s the crisis?” Cas dives in to his pancakes without another word like he’s so sure Dean’s going to spill his guts that he doesn’t even need to maintain eye contact to get the details.

“I just couldn’t fucking sleep the other night, ok?” Dean wilts under the attention and he’s not sure why. Cas is just asking a question. He can brush it off. He feels bad lying, though. He tells Cas everything. Everything, apparently, except the gory details of his apparently haunted fucking apartment. Dean almost laughs at that thought because it’s such a load of horseshit he can’t believe it’s the truth for even a second and yet, here he is, dreading going back there even in the daylight.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m not going to push, but we both know you could sleep through a nuclear explosion, and I’ve seen you catch a cat nap waiting in line for tickets to Episode 1 when it first came out, so I don’t entirely believe you. But if you don’t wanna talk about it…” Cas trails off like the rest of the question speaks for itself and Dean sighs, resigned, because of-fucking-course Cas sees through his bullshit. Whatever.

“I heard…a thing,” he says, not sure exactly how to explain what he’s not even sure he wants to explain.

“You heard a thing,” Cas says, his voice flat, and he drinks a third of his mug of coffee in one drawn out mouthful, letting his eyes settle on Dean’s sleepy face as he sets the cup down on the table. He picks up his utensils but they just hover over his pancakes as he waits for Dean to elaborate.

“There was…I don’t know. A noise. I couldn’t tell you what it was. But it scared the ever-loving fuck out of me, and my mind started racing, and you know what it’s like,” Dean pauses for effect, shrugging his shoulders like that says something. “It gets away from you. It’s this little thing, it doesn’t mean anything, and all of a sudden your brain is telling you all the horror movies you’ve ever seen where they used a sound effect that sounds kinda like that sound you heard. And before I knew it, it was fucking four AM. I don’t even know if I slept or if I just zoned out until my alarm went off but it fucking sucked.” Dean pointedly doesn’t mention the voice he thinks he heard shushing him in the darkness, doesn’t mention how much time he spent analysing _that_. He trusts Cas to the ends of the earth but he doesn’t need to share those particular details with a trusted confidante to know how crazy it’d sound.

Cas is quiet for just long enough that Dean starts to wonder if he’s finally said something dumb enough that his best friend has decided he needs to be smacked upside the head with something blunt and heavy. Cas has put up with an astronomical amount of Dean’s shit over the years, what with the fact that he was a catastrophically late bloomer when it came to the subject of decision making skills and good judgement. When Dean nearly got his ass kicked because he hit on the star quarterback’s girlfriend in senior year, Cas let him vent until he was blue in the face and then calmly pointed out that perhaps he should consider things other than his dick’s opinion when choosing where to direct his attentions. When a prank war with Sam had ended with Dean wearing twin beer bottles glued to his palms, Cas had shaken his head silently and gone to the drug store for a bottle of nail polish remover, and he hadn’t said a single word as to how a twenty something year old man should probably have known better than to let himself be goaded into such a predicament. It wasn’t entirely outside the realm of conceivable that Cas would someday run out of his sainted patience and tell Dean that he was the dumbest, least functional human being in the history of fuck-ups, and stop tolerating his utter bullshit.

“Well, if there _is_ a gremlin or a bogeyman or whatever living in your closet, you know you’re more than welcome to crash on my couch any time it decides to interrupt your beauty sleep. Lord knows you need it. You’re fucking hideous. Can’t have you getting any uglier. I mean, seriously, how are you going to maintain your reputation as a legendary player if you have to rely on your clever wit to charm the barflies into your bed?” Cas rolls his eyes, but it’s playful and insincere.

“You’re just jealous,” Dean jibes. He wolfs down the last of his pancakes in an oversized bite, which really just goes to prove Cas’ point about his charm. He is somewhat lacking in the poise department. Cas snorts derisively and pours another coffee for each of them. It’s not a denial.


	2. December 7th, 12:24 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stares at the remote in his hand. There’s something he’s missing. He hits the power button and the screen blinks to black. He’s setting the remote down, tucking a marker in the book, convinced something is wrong but unsure what. Still, he’s less anxious now, less wound up, so it’s not important. He’ll go to bed. If it matters it will come to him.

Insomnia greets Dean like an old friend. It welcomes him with open arms, a ready embrace, though he’s obviously displeased at the encounter. It’s not like this every night, fortunately, but on nights like tonight his mind refuses to settle, his thoughts race and his limbs twitch anxiously and he knows that sleep will evade him. Some nights he fights it anyway; tosses and turns and battles with futile effort, willing his mind to still and grant him the to pass the dwindling few hours left before his alarm sounds in a pleasant comatose state. Tonight he doesn’t bother. He throws the covers off, the threadbare sheet and every blanket he owns because he still just cannot get this room to retain any heat, and swings his bare feet down to meet the cool floorboards. He reaches for a pair of pants, then drops them. The apartment is empty. No one will care if he sits up on the couch in his boxer shorts.

He creeps into the stillness of the living room, silently working the muscles in his shoulders to combat the stiffness that’s threatening to settle in. He approaches the couch, but at the last second he changes course for the kitchen and grabs a beer. Gotta relax somehow. The TV blinks to life at the push of a button and he turns the volume low. The walls in this place are so thin and the last thing he needs is his damn neighbours complaining. Sam always bugs him about this place. The heat, the thin walls, the single pane windows, the plumbing, and the fact that it’s just generally ugly as sin; these are Sam’s favourite arguments as to why Dean should get a new place. Something bigger and newer and cleaner and brighter and warmer and fresher and everything-er than this place.

_“So are you still living in that shit-hole?” His brother laughed in to the phone. Dean cringed, because they had this same conversation every single time they spoke. He knew exactly how it would play out._

_“Yeah Sammy, but you know, if you hate my home so much, you don’t have to stay here when you come out for Christmas. I won’t force you.”_

_“Aw come on, Dean, you know that place is practically condemned. The pipes are so old you can taste it in the water. It smells funny. I’m pretty sure there’s mould in your ceiling. That place is going to make you sick. You should move. I’ll help you find a new place next time I come visit. You could move in to a nicer building, or maybe even find a little house to rent. Somewhere with a garage for your car.”_

_“Yeah but then I gotta move, man. I hate that shit.” John had moved them around so much when they were kids. By the time Dean was old enough to take off on his own, (or rather Sammy was, because Dean wouldn’t leave until he could get Sam out of that house,) he wanted a home. He moved his meagre possessions in to the first apartment he could find, worked his roots in, and silently vowed to_ stay.

_“But shouldn’t you live somewhere you like? And no offense, I appreciate the free room and board, but I’m bringing Jess out at Christmas and I’m not entirely certain she’s going to love your pullout couch.”_

_“You’re bringing Jess?” Dean’s attention snapped on to that detail._

_“Yeah, yeah I figured it was time for her to meet the family.”_

_“Jesus Sam, that’s great. I’m excited to meet her. But even if I wanted to move, which I don’t, because moving sucks and my place is fine, thank you, it’s already December. I couldn’t move before you guys got here anyway.”_

_“Yeah fine, you’re right. But you should still think about it. That place isn’t doing you any favours.”_

Dean smiles at the memory of his conversation with Sam. The kid seems genuinely happy, and Jess is obviously good for him. Dean is honestly excited to meet her, but Sam’s right about his stupid couch. It’s not that comfortable. He should probably just find them a hotel room for the week. He flips through the channels on the TV idly, not paying much attention because he knows there’s not going to be much of anything worth watching. Late night TV is garbage, but it’s a distraction. Dean’s gone through the channels three, four, five times, which is quite a feat because there are just so many these days, and he splurges on the good channels, the HBO and the specialty shit, before deciding that there’s nothing he wants to pass the time with. He flips off the TV and his feet drag across the floor as he walks to the bookshelf. He’s read everything here so many times, but they’re all favourites. Dean doesn’t keep books he doesn’t love. There’s a bunch of Vonnegut, of course, but as much as he loves them, that’s not what he’s in the mood for. He drags his fingers along the spines, as if he could read them by osmosis, as if he’s learning them by touch as well as he knows the words in his memories. His hand settles on “A Brave New World” and he pulls it from the shelf. It’s been a long time since he’s read Huxley. It’s the perfect distraction. He kinda wishes he had some of those magic little pills right now, so he could take a vacation from himself, so he could escape his insomnia and bliss out. … _there is always soma, delicious soma, half a gramme for a half-holiday, a gramme for a week-end, two grammes for a trip to the gorgeous East, three for a dark eternity on the moon…_ It’s impersonal and odd, the way that thought grips him. Dean’s drug of choice has always been good old-fashioned all-American alcohol. The idea of toying around with anything else has always felt foreign and unpleasant. But this is escapism, it’s not something he’s trying to do in the here and now. He’s immersing himself in fiction and letting the book take him away from the cold reality of his insomnia. It doesn’t have to be better than what’s right in front of him. It just has to be different.

Before he knows it, he’s 80 pages or so in to the book, his beer forgotten and warming on the table. It’s a welcome distraction, the way he gets immersed in the story and forgets his own troubles. He hasn’t looked at the clock since he started reading, doesn’t know what time it is, isn’t worried about how tired he is. He’s just wrapped up in poor Bernard’s story, the horrible broken nature of the society he lives in. In the back of his mind he’s got contentment, maybe even happiness. He’s relaxing, and it’s entirely possible he might just fall asleep on the couch. Yes. Sleep. That’s a possibility now. He might just go to sleep. He reaches for the remote to turn the TV off.

Dean stares at the remote in his hand. There’s something he’s missing. He hits the power button and the screen blinks to black. He’s setting the remote down, tucking a marker in the book, convinced something is wrong but unsure what. Still, he’s less anxious now, less wound up, so it’s not important. He’ll go to bed. If it matters it will come to him.

He’s half way to the bedroom when the blue-ish light of the screen pools around his feet and the thin strained sound of an old Twilight Zone rerun interrupts his progress. Dean turns slowly. He knows for a fact he turned the TV off just now. Come to think of it, he knows for a fact he turned it off before he started reading, too. The rest of the room is dark, but the screen is alive with the black and white images, and the silence of the night is broken by the audio track, volume low but unmistakeable. Dean feels frozen in place. His first instinct is to dive for the remote and turn the TV off again but he knows it won’t change anything. He does it anyway. His hands close around the device and he stabs at the buttons with something akin to panic and the screen flits to blessed black for a heartbeat and a half. But then it’s back on, and some infomercial is telling him about the benefits of some magical cooking device that will prevent him from ever having to comically smash tomatoes with a normal knife. It occurs to Dean in passing that this might just be a silly electrical problem. Isn’t it a total over-reaction to assume that there’s something malicious and inexplicable in his apartment and that it’s choosing to fuck with his television? He sets the remote on the coffee table with smooth, controlled motions and picks himself up off the edge of the couch. He’s much less calm than his movements would indicate, if there were anyone here to interpret them. There’s a rising sense of panic as he crosses the short distance to the TV and yanks the cord out of the power bar. It doesn’t turn off. The infomercial is still there, in its gaudy bright colours and obnoxious persuasiveness. Even if he cookedmuch he wouldn’t want what they’re selling. He unplugs the power bar itself, and everything that’s plugged in to it for good measure, because why not be thorough? Dean briefly acknowledges the fact that he might be stark raving mad. There might not be an infomercial on at all. He might be losing his grip. It doesn’t change anything.

Dean settles back on to the couch, wincing as his tired bones creak with the effort. He lies down and drapes a blanket over himself. He’s tired now and he wants to go to bed, but the only thing more disturbing than the fact that his disconnected television won’t turn off is the idea of leaving it running and going to bed in the other room. God only knows what it will do unsupervised. So he curls in on himself in an imitation of comfort and when sleep eventually claims him, the eerie blue light of the screen is still wrapped around his supine form.

 

Dean blinks the sleep out of his eyes when he hears the faint strains of his alarm clock from the bedroom. It’s not particularly loud but it’s enough of an intrusion into his shallow sleep to drag him back towards the surface. He’s briefly confused as to why he’s on the couch. Right. Insubordinate television. Fuck. He stares at the now-blank screen for a solid minute before willing himself to rise. Dean is hesitant to turn his back on the thing, but he moves cautiously and walks to his bedroom to turn off the alarm. The clock radio is playing Madonna and he remembers that he meant to pick a different station to wake up to but fuck it, whatever. It’s not important right now. Dean’s bones want to crawl in to the shower and let the warm water trick him into feeling well rested, but his brain needs to know. He returns to the living room, pushes the power button on the remote. The tv turns on normally, and he flips through the channels for a few moments to convince himself he can still control the thing. When he hits the power button again, it obeys his command. Behind the tv, all the cords are plugged in as they should be. There’s no indication at all of what he experienced last night.

In the shower, the water is hot and soothing. It’s a delicious comfort in the cold winter morning to languish in the liquid heat. Lately, he feels like he can’t shake the chill of this place. The shower is the only exception. It’s the only time he feels truly comfortable in this apartment. He washes slowly, drawing the process out, because when he’s done, he has to return to the cold emptiness of the other rooms. Dean watches absentmindedly as the soap circles the drain. He rolls his shoulders, letting the vertebrae pop and crack in protest, loosening with each movement. He’s half-hard with morning arousal, and he touches himself roughly, an excuse to stay in the shower a few minutes longer just as much as an intent to satisfy desire. Dean doesn’t remember the last time he slept next to a warm body. Dean doesn’t remember the last time there was someone in his waking world he wanted to sleep next to. Cas jokes about his string of drunken hookups, but they both know it’s empty and nameless and cold. He never stays and they never want him to. It doesn’t take long before he feels his release looming. He thinks of no one in particular, just skin on skin, hands that aren’t his own, moans that aren’t his own, and then moans that are his own break the quiet of the bathroom as he spills over his fist. He stays in the shower a minute longer for no reason, just letting the water run over his body. His towel is warm and soft and fluffy. When he wraps it around his waist, his damp feet slapping on the tile floor, his eye drifts across the room and he’s barely aware he sees it. He’s half way out the door before it registers. Turning sharply, like he thinks it will disappear if he takes a nanosecond longer to bring it into his field of view, he settles on the mirror and his skin crawls. Dean’s faced with a foggy sheet of glass. That, he was expecting. But the message scrawled there, some unseen finger having dragged the letters into the mist when he wasn’t looking; Dean isn’t prepared for that. It’s five letters, simple block letters, a single word, but it grips him and he wants to look away but he can’t.

_SHHHH_

Dean stares at it for longer than is comfortable before wiping the mist away with a hand towel. He can’t see the message anymore but he knows it’s still there. He leaves for work without making coffee. He doesn’t want to spend another second in this godforsaken place.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Opinions? Formless ideas begging to be condensed into conversation? Unparallelled rage at my cruelty? Come talk to me about it on the tumblrs! Shennanigoats.tumblr.com


	3. December 19th, 11:42 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could make yourself useful and chop vegetables,” Cas suggests, but it’s really more of a command. He passes Dean a cutting board and an assortment of produce; onions and garlic and mushrooms and green peppers and Dean sets to work dicing and chopping. Before long the apartment is filled with fresh, spicy smells, the savoury aroma of ground beef and Italian sausage frying in a pan and the hearty sound of Dean and Cas’ laughter, honest and real and warm, and Dean’s struck with the odd sensation that he feels so much more at home here than in the place that’s actually his home.

The fact that Dean decided in the end to book a hotel room for Sam and Jess has nothing to do with the terror he feels every time a late-night quiet settles over his apartment. He tells himself this over and over as he stands outside the arrivals gate in a leather jacket that’s too warm for the artificial heat of the airports and too thin for the winter air but just right for the interior of the Impala. He tells himself repeatedly that the two things are not connected in any way and he tells himself he believes it and he tells himself to shut the fuck up about it, already, because it's a non-issue and he’s got more important things to dwell on. Like whether his Sasquatch of a baby brother is going to insist on paying him back for the hotel room or whether he’s going to let him call it a present. Like how just left of ridiculous it's going to be to have his brother in town but several blocks away in a rented room. Like how the fuck he’s going to continue functioning like a real live human being if he keeps losing whole nights of sleep on a regular basis. He hasn't had any more encounters, as he’s started referring to them when he’s too fucking tired to deny them outright anymore, since the thing with the TV and the mirror, and he tells himself it's a blessing because he doesn't have to deal. Another part of his brain says that maybe he shouldn't count his blessings yet. He tells that part to shut right the fuck up.

Sam’s flight has been delayed twice already. It should have been here two hours ago. There was some problem with the plane and it got pushed back because they had to unload all the people and the luggage and load them on to a whole new plane and then that plane had to be fuelled and checked. And then the weather had been crappy so they hadn't been able to take off right away anyway. Dean glances at the screen hanging over the arrivals gate, the one that’s as tall as he is, and he’s utterly dismayed to see that the damned flight is delayed again. Having never flown before, he can’t imagine how that’s possible. Did they get stuck behind an old lady plane with her blinker on in the aerial fast lane or something? How do you even lose time when you're flying? Don't you have to go a certain speed to like, not fall out of the god damned sky? He’s baffled by the whole damn thing, but the board says it’s going to be another hour before the thing lands and gives him back his brother so he strolls off in search of a coffee shop to kill some time.

The little café attached to the gift shop is warm and inviting despite the bustle of weary travellers cluttering up almost every table in sight. There's winter coats draped over every chair and carry-on bags making the floor a labyrinth but he manages to find a table in the back corner and seeks refuge there to count down the minutes. A disinterested waitress brings him a cup of black coffee and a slice of pie when he asks. She smiles at his idle flirtation but he doesn't linger, too busy to let herself be drawn in by the ego of a man who will walk out the door as soon as the plane or the person he’s waiting for graces them with their presence. He'd be sorry to see her go if she hadn’t dropped her eyes to cast judging glances at his worn jeans and flannel. Dean thinks he looks fine.

Dean wishes idly that he’d brought a book with him. He hasn’t finished his umpteenth read through Brave New World, started the last time…the last time it happened. Could have brought it along and busted through another few chapters at least over pie and coffee while he waited for Sam-squatch and the girlfriend, but he hadn’t counted on delays, plural, and so he hadn’t planned. He puts a bite of pie in his mouth and pulls his phone out of the left side pocket of his leather jacket. Maybe Dean should invest in one of those fancy smart-phones, the kind with internet and games and stuff. He could kill a fuckton of time if he had the entire internet at his disposal right about now. Instead, he texts Cas.

<< _I fucking hate airports, man._

_> >What have airports ever done to you?_

_< <Sam’s flight is delayed. I’ve been here over an hour. It’s boring and full of assholes._

_> >That’s a shame. I’m sure Sam hates being stuck on the plane with those long legs of his a whole lot more than you hate being stuck in an airport you could totally leave if you wanted to._

_< <You’re supposed to be on my side._

_> >I’m not not on your side. I’m just saying. You should bring Sam over for dinner tonight. I’ll make lasagne._

_< <You sure dude? He’s got Jess with him, that’s a bunch of mouths to feed._

_> >Oh then definitely yes. Can’t wait to meet the girl Sam hasn’t stopped talking about._

_< <Will there be pie?_

_> >I suppose there has to be, doesn’t there?_

It’s at least another hour and a half before Sam’s plane lands and another twenty minutes more before Sam strides through the glass doors to the security controlled area with a weary look on his face and a beautiful blonde at his side. Sam’s sent pictures of Jess but they don’t do her justice, not really. Even exhausted from travelling and delays she’s bright and stunning and when she catches Sam’s eye, the smile she gives him is wide and generous. It’s dwarfed by the one Sam gives her in return, though. He hitches his backpack up on his shoulder and scans the crowd for a minute before Dean can catch his attention, and then they’re bee-lining through the crowd.

“You must be Jess,” Dean states obviously, lacking the sense to come up with anything grander or cleverer.

“It’s good to meet you, Dean,” she replies, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug that’s warm and welcoming and honest, and Dean likes her immediately. “Sam never stops talking about you.”

“It’s all lies, I swear to god. He doesn’t have proof of anything,” Dean jests with a smile on his face that he honestly means. “You guys got luggage?” He asks as they pick their way through the madding crowd and Sam nods, weary, angling towards the luggage carousel.

“Sorry you got stuck here waiting,” says Sam, his eyes fixed on the spinning conveyor, his attention focused on locating the one bag that looks exactly the same as all the other bags but is identifiably his. Dean can’t tell them apart. He doesn’t try.

“Just another reason not to fly,” Dean replies, like it’s an answer. It’s not Sam’s fault shit went sideways. “Cas wants to make us dinner tonight. You guys ok with that?” Sam’s located his bag it seems, and he’s tracking its progress like a dog that knows you’ve got a ball behind your back, his eyes darting to and fro, intent on not letting the thing out of his sight for even the length of a blink. “I can tell him to reschedule if you’re too beat from the flight,” he offers, as an afterthought. Sam certainly looks like he could use a nap.

“That sounds great!” Jess is enthusiastic even in her exhaustion. “I’m looking forward to meeting him too. Sam talks a lot about both of you.” Dean knows why. They’re all Sam has left of home. He doesn’t speak on the subject any further as they rescue Jess’ bag from an elderly woman who refuses to acknowledge it’s not hers despite the vivid luggage tags that say “Property of Jessica Moore,” and the fact that it’s not even the same colour as the bag she eventually latches on to. Outside, they huddle against the cold as Dean leads the way across the parking lot, carefully manoeuvring two suitcases, a backpack and Jess’ enormous purse (it’s a Weekend bag, she insists; Dean says purse) into the trunk before clambering into the Impala with a minimum of fuss. Sam tries to shove his girlfriend into the front seat, because who says chivalry is dead, but she begs off. Sam needs the legroom, she states bluntly and slides into the back without another word. She refuses to be moved.

 

They make it back into the city without too much effort because it’s mid-day and Dean knows all the shortcuts. He handles the Impala with ease, weaving in and out of traffic smoothly and efficiently and it’s calming because he knows his baby like he knows himself, maybe even better, and she doesn’t let him down. They’re just a few blocks from the hotel when Sam pipes up.

“This isn’t the way to your apartment, is it? I thought we were going to drop our stuff off before we did anything else.” Dean laughs.

“I seem to recall us having a conversation about the abysmal nature of my apartment and the frankly appalling level of comfort my pull out couch offers. So…I booked you guys a hotel.” Sam’s visibly shocked by Dean’s gesture, but Dean pretends like it’s nothing, like its no more of a courtesy than holding the door open for someone or offering your guest the last beer.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jess says softly, and she’s clearly touched, but Dean waves off both their protestation with an idle hand as he palms the wheel and the car rolls smoothly through a turn. He pulls up in front of the hotel and kills the engine.

“It’s nothing fancy, no, seriously Sam, it’s no big deal, don’t worry about it. I’ve got the week off, I’ll still see you guys plenty. But that couch does suck, like a lot, and it’s not exactly long enough for Sam-squatch here, and besides, I don’t want to listen to you guys screwing through my shitty apartment’s paper thin walls for the next 8 days.” Sam blushes seven shades of furious, but he acquiesces eventually because all the reasons Dean’s giving are totally valid ones. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that Dean wants to spend as little time in his apartment as he can possibly manage lately.

“Would you be super offended if we checked in and took a nap, then?” Sam asks as they grab their bags out of the trunk.

“I thought you might say that,” Dean replies. “You still remember how to get to Cas’ place? Text me if you guys need a ride?” Sam rolls his eyes.

“I think we can manage to get ourselves four blocks without an escort.”

“OK then. We’ll see you for dinner.” Dean waves casually as he leaves them at the front desk, pulling out his phone to text Cas as he slides into the driver’s seat because what the hell else is he going to do with a free afternoon. He’s already sent the message before he realizes it’s a weekday and Cas is almost certainly at work. He’s kind of startled when he gets a reply before he’s even started the engine.

_> >Lovebirds landed?_

_< <They’re napping at the hotel. Got some time to kill. Let me know when you’re home from work and I can help you with dinner if you want_

_> >I’m already home. Took the afternoon off. Come by whenever._

True to his promise, Cas has a pie in the oven when Dean arrives at his apartment ten minutes later. It smells like blueberry he thinks as he kicks off his shoes and sets the case of beer he brought on the counter. Cas has a pot of sauce simmering on the stove because _of course_ he’s making lasagne from scratch.

“Make the noodles by hand too, Cas, or did you cut corners and buy them at the store like the rest of us mortals?” Cas raises an eyebrow at him and gestures with his spoon to the bamboo butcher block on the kitchen table, draped with broad noodles and dusted with flour.

“Do you even need to ask?” Cas says dryly, dipping his spoon back into the sauce to stir lazily. “You still look like shit, by the way. Are you even sleeping?” The question hits Dean like a punch to the gut. He kinda thought he was pulling off a better con than that. Should have known Cas would see through him; he always has.

“I sleep,” he replies. Lying makes him weary.

“What, like four, five hours a night? What the hell is going on with you?” Cas leaves his spoon on the stove and strides across to where Dean is leaning against the kitchen table. “I haven’t seen you look this terrible since you pulled those two all-nighters in senior year and then came down with the flu.” Dean laughs, but it’s a hollow noise.

“Yeah, I’m still not sure how I managed to make it through that fucking exam. I could barely see straight by the time I finished the damn thing.”

“And you look about that good right now. Seriously. What the crap is up with you?” Dean shakes his head. He’s not ready to have this conversation. He’s pretty sure he never wants to have this conversation.

“Nothing man. I’ll be fine. Really. It’s just been a long week.” He hates lying to Cas but like, really, what’s he going to say? His TV has a mind of its own and he’s imagining all sorts of messed up shit and he needs a night light and for his mom to check for monsters under his bed before he can get a good night’s sleep? It’s fully unreasonable inside his head and he’s the one who experienced it, or at least he thinks he is. It won't sound any more rational out loud. That’s the worst part, Dean admits in his silent monologue. He’s still not even sure if he experienced anything other than a nightmare and he’s not able to reconcile himself with any of the possibilities he can come up with. Best course of action is to deny the hell out of it and hope it goes away. That never has any negative consequences, right?

Cas nods at him. It’s a slight gesture, casual and benign and simple, but he says so much with it. He says ‘I accept that this is the stance you are taking and I won’t press you any further on it’ and he says ‘I am fully aware that you are so full of horseshit you could be mistaken for a barn at the present moment’ and he says ‘I’m still concerned about you and you should take better care of yourself’ and he says ‘this is exactly the reaction I expected from you because I’ve known you since you were a gangly teenage idiot and you haven’t changed all that much, just now you’re a broad shouldered adult idiot.’ Cas grabs the case of beer and empties it in to the fridge and, despite the fact that it’s only three, he pulls two cold ones out of the supply he already had on hand and passes one to Dean.

“You look like you need this,” he says, offering no commentary on what that might mean, and smiles like everything is ok. Dean doesn’t argue. His brother is in town and he’s warm and safe at his best friend’s house which is considerably more comfortable than his own and he has an ice cold beer in his hand. Everything basically _is_ ok.

“Thanks Cas,” Dean replies. He means it for the beer but he has an afterthought that it also applies to the nod and to not asking more questions and to letting him pretend for a little while as he sorts out whatever’s going on in his brain. Cas just smiles back warmly and goes over to the stove to check on his sauce.

“You could make yourself useful and chop vegetables,” Cas suggests, but it’s really more of a command. He passes Dean a cutting board and an assortment of produce; onions and garlic and mushrooms and green peppers and Dean sets to work dicing and chopping. Before long the apartment is filled with fresh, spicy smells, the savoury aroma of ground beef and Italian sausage frying in a pan and the hearty sound of Dean and Cas’ laughter, honest and real and warm, and Dean’s struck with the odd sensation that he feels so much more at home here than in the place that’s actually his home.

The thought catches him off guard and he freezes with the knife mid chop, half way into an onion. It’s wedged there awkwardly and he just kind of stares at it, pondering what in the hell could have prompted him to think such a weird thing. Cas turns around to collect the garlic he’s minced and Dean feels eyes on him.

“Something wrong?” Cas asks, picking up the bowl of garlic mince and tipping it into the frying pan to sizzle and simmer with the meats.

“I’m just trying to remember if I left the iron on this morning,” Dean lies. He regrets it the second the words are out of his mouth.

“You work at a garage. Why would you be ironing clothes before you left for work? And didn’t you take the day off to pick Sam and Jess up? And, actually, do you even _own_ an iron?” Cas cuts through his crap like a hot knife through butter.

“Huh. Yeah, guess you’re right. Then I definitely didn’t leave the iron on.” Cas opens his mouth like he’s going to say something more, and Dean silently wills him to drop it. He’s got zero idea what the fuck he was thinking and he’s entirely certain that trying to articulate this thing that slipped through his fingers the second he tried to grab it is going to go exactly as well as his BS line about the iron did. Cas shrugs his shoulders and turns back to the fridge, pulling out a brick of mozzarella cheese that looks like it could be used as a weapon in a dire situation and setting it on the table beside Dean.

“Grate this when you’re done with the veg?” He asks. His words speak only of cheese, but his tone says he’s more than a little worried about his friend and can’t really think of a tactful way to say ‘you’re more fucked up than usual, please tell me what the hell is going on,’ and Dean ignores it in favour of draining the last of his beer and focusing on not chopping off any of his favourite fingers with the knife that Cas keeps honed to military precision.

Cas is fastidious about things like that. His kitchen is always arranged just so. Everything has a place and everything is functional and everything is the exact perfect tool for the job. His knives are all high quality, well made devices and he washes them by hand and sharpens them on a long metal rod thing that looks more like a weapon itself than a kitchen implement. His pots and pans are the heavy bottomed kind you’d expect to see someone on a cooking show using, copper-coloured and shiny and immaculately cared for. He makes pies in glass pie-plates because they ‘don’t transfer any kind of metal flavours,’ and his dishes are white and plain and solid. Even that damned stand mixer, which currently has a pasta-rolling attachment stuck on to the front of it is the top of the line version. He keeps it perfectly clean and Dean knows if he pulls out the drawer below it he’ll find neatly organized attachments for stuffing sausages and grinding meat and julienning vegetables and probably even the parts that turn it in to an ice cream maker. Dean could go the rest of his life eating only the food Cas makes from scratch and he’d never miss takeout. The man is a domestic god.

The cheese fills the better part of a mixing bowl when it’s grated. Dean steals a little pinch off the top and pops it into his mouth before sliding it across the table where Cas can reach it.

“What time are Sam and Jess coming over?” Cas asks as he opens a tub of ricotta and starts to mix it together with eggs. Dean’s a little surprised Cas didn’t make the cheese from scratch too. He’s seen documentaries on that shit, late night tv when he can’t sleep, and it seems like the kind of thing Cas would totally do but apparently you have to draw the line somewhere.

“Sam didn’t really say. I imagine maybe six? I can text him and find out,” Dean offers, sidling up to the fridge to grab them each another beer. He figures his part of helping with dinner is probably mostly over. He can’t screw up too badly chopping veg and grating cheese. How hard is it to take things and make them in to smaller pieces? Cas will probably want to assemble the thing himself. It’s in the details.

“Don’t worry about it. Sam will show up at a reasonable time. Just curious.” Cas has turned off the elements on the stove and is mixing the meat in with the sauce. He definitely doesn’t need Dean’s help to assemble it, but he wants to watch anyway. It’s fascinating to him how Cas can take basic things like flour and cheese and tomatoes and turn them into something as amazing and complex as a lasagne. He feels like it’s important to appreciate the process even if he’ll never in his life try to recreate it. They chat casually as Cas layers noodles and meat and cheese over and over and over, until the deep dish is filled almost to the brim. From the side, the glass dish looks like a cross-section of the earth, varied reds and browns and paler white streaks from the cheese settling together as the warmth of the sauce amalgamates them into something greater than the sum of their parts. Cas sprinkles the remaining cheese he’s reserved over the top and pops the whole thing in the fridge to wait for the appropriate time to bake.

“You really do need to consider finding a different apartment,” Cas says finally as they retreat to the living room to relax, beer in hand. Dean’s eyes narrow. He’s clearly been talking to Sam about this. “I could help you look, you know. That place isn’t doing you any favours.”

“That’s exactly what Sam says,” he replies, noncommittally.

“Sam’s not wrong. I don’t get why you’re attached to it.” Cas gives him a look that’s all sympathy and understanding, but there’s a hint of something else hiding below the surface. Dean tries not to think too hard on what it might be.

“I’ve lived in that place for years, Cas. It’s home.”  
“Yeah but it’s not a very good home. The walls are peeling. There’s probably mould in them, no, actually, I’m sure there is. There’s a ridiculous draft in there, and I’d be willing to bet money that it’s not seismically sound. Not that we get too many earthquakes around here, but seriously, it’s a death trap.” _Yeah_ , Dean thinks. _Plus it’s fucking haunted._  
“You guys are both really hung up on this for some reason. I like my death trap,” he lies, because it’s easier than dealing with the truth. Of course he wants to live somewhere warm and comfortable and considerably less unpleasant. He just doesn’t see that he deserves to.

“What a surprise. Two people who care about you a great deal want good things to happen to you. Be still my beating heart, it’s a motherfucking Christmas Miracle.” Cas’ voice drips with sarcasm as he rolls his eyes at Dean, but somehow Dean’s heart still swells a little. He promptly stuffs the feeling down, folding it into the tiniest version of itself that he can manage and tucking it into a corner where he can pointedly not think about it later. It’s a cold stab of guilt to think too closely on the people who care about him.

Dean’s not stupid. He knows he won the fucking lottery when it comes to brothers, despite how little he sees of Sam and despite the teasing and the mockery. Sam was always a great kid and now he's grown in to a pretty stand up man and Dean's as proud of him as he would be his own kid. And the whole deal with his dad may have soured his taste for actual parental relationships, but he's got Bobby and that's as good as anyone else’s blood relations if not a fair sight better. It's almost worth the shit he went through with John just to have Bobby in his corner with his grumbling and his inexhaustible knowledge and his trucker hats. If Dean ever has kids, he thinks, he's going to want to look to Bobby as his example of how to raise them. And he’s got Cas. He has no idea what he’d do without Cas, except maybe drink alone and subsist entirely on takeout and frozen pizzas. He’d have gone crazy years ago without Cas. Dingo ate my baby crazy.

It's not the people currently in his life that are a problem. He can talk about how great they are until the cows come home and be entirely contented. The problem lies in the fact that that particular line of thinking usually leads to a remembrance of the people who aren't in his life any more for various reasons. Thinking about Sam always makes him think of mom. Thinking of mom always makes him feel sick to his stomach. The fire was an accident. He knows this. The fire marshall said so and the insurance company said so and dad said so and the cops said so. It was an established fact. But even twenty four years later Dean can't shake the childish fear that it was somehow his fault; that his mother was dead because he wasn't good enough or smart enough or fast enough. He'd thought at the time that he should have been able to save her somehow, and no amount of reassurance to the contrary had ever let him truly shake the feeling. And of course thinking of mom made him think of John, also dead. But while remembrances of Mary left him feeling guilty and depressed, thinking on John just left him angry. All the rage that simmered just below the surface bubbled up in a sickening miasma and his thoughts turned dark and twisted. Cas would talk him through it if he knew. Dean only had to ask, but he never did.

“Hey, why bother moving into a nicer place when I can just bum around on your couch all the time. No point in both of us having decent, grown up digs. Then there’d actually be a question as to where we’re going to spend Fridays.” Dean shrugs casually and feels himself sinking in to the couch, relaxing more than he has all week. There’s a warmth that settles into his skin when he’s at Cas’ place and he’s never been able to recreate it at home. Maybe they’re right, Sam and Cas. Maybe he needs to swallow his pride and find a place that’s slightly less of a crap-hole. Maybe.

Dean and Cas are each four beers in by the time Sam and Jess arrive. They look refreshed, like they’ve slept and showered and changed, but when Cas offers coffee like the good little Martha Stuart clone he is with company, they both accept gratefully. Dean notices they don’t refuse when he suggests they might enjoy it more with a little liqueur thrown in for good measure. Jess’ fingers curl around the mug with dainty grace as she sips it slowly, and the sigh that she releases is one of comfort, of contentment. Dean thinks he understands.

Jess and Cas get along famously, it turns out. She’s brilliant and confident and charming and Dean has no idea what she sees in his clod of a little brother but he’s glad she does. She’s perfect for Sam. Dinner is a long affair and the heavy blanket of a deep winter night has wrapped itself around the city by the time they’re eating pie and drinking red wine. Dean doesn’t’ even really like wine, but it’s almost the same colour as the filling in Cas’ pie and it seems rude to refuse such a perfect balance so he drinks it anyway. Cas takes all compliments on his cooking with a modest grace.

“It’s nothing,” he says, when Sam gushes about how grateful he is for a home cooked meal and how much he loves Cas’ cooking and how nice it is for him to have invited them over.

“Should I be jealous?” Jess teases and lays a kiss on Sam’s cheek. His arms wrap around her and she almost disappears, her small frame no match for Sam’s stature.

“Of Cas?” Sam laughs. “No. No I don’t think I’m quite his type.” Cas just blushes and refills their wine.

Dean and Cas stay up drinking well after Sam and Jess head back to their hotel. It is, after all, Friday.

“So if they’re staying at a hotel, and your apartment is borderline condemned, what are you doing for Christmas?” Cas asks. He’s pulled a half-bottle of scotch out of a cabinet somewhere and is pouring them each a heavy measure. Cas doesn’t do things part way. “I assume you actually have plans, what with Sam flying half way across the country for that exact occasion?” Even half-cut, Cas is verbose and well spoken. He puts Dean to shame.

“Hadn’t really talked about it, but yeah, I guess probably. Maybe I’ll just take some eggnog over to their hotel or something.” Dean inhales the heady aroma of the booze before taking a sip. It’s a huge glass, he notices. It’s like Cas is trying to get him drunk or something. The thought almost makes him laugh.

“That’s stupid. You guys should have Christmas here. I haven’t got a tree, but you can have the couch, and there’s a bed under all those boxes in the spare room if you’ll help me clear it off in the next few days. We can get Chinese takeout and watch shitty movies and I’ll do cinnamon rolls in the morning.” Cas swirls the ice in his own drink like he’s not already mostly drunk. He’s not even slurring.

“Aw come on, Cas. You don’t have to do that. I don’t wanna put you out.”

“Dean?” He tears his eyes off his drink to respond to his name. “Shut up.” Cas says. “You guys are family. You’re having Christmas here. End of conversation.”

It’s not the end of the conversation though. Dean insists that if Cas is going to host literally his entire family, Dean’s going to do the shopping. And there needs to be a tree.

“It has to be an artificial tree,” Cas insists. “The building has rules. I can’t bring in a cut cedar. Fire hazard or something like that.”  
“Sure, whatever, I don’t even care if it’s a three foot tall plastic Charlie Brown thing, it just needs to be a tree. If I agree to actually, you know, help, can we do Christmas dinner too? Turkey and stuffing and all that shit?” Dean can’t pretend he’s not excited about doing the whole tradition thing. They never really got the chance when he was a kid. John never thought it was important.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Dean. Of course we’re doing a turkey.” It’s nearly two am before they finally get too tired to sit up and arrange their impromptu holiday party. Dean falls asleep on the couch again, warm and content. He doesn’t even dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Dean actually gets a decent night's sleep, the lucky bastard.   
> Shennanigoats.tumblr.com. You know the drill


	4. December 22nd, 4:04 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes up with a start. He’s warm at the moment, huddled as he is under his blankets, but he can feel the chill on the skin of his face, taste it in the air he huffs in frantic gulps. The nightmare he woke from is shifting and shapeless in the back of his mind, indistinct except for the insidious, paralyzing dread that grips him. He doesn’t move except to heave his chest to gasp for air, trying in desperation to bring his heart rate down from the hummingbird staccato it’s drumming inside his chest. Adrenaline makes his senses sharp, but he can’t hear anything over the pounding rhythm of his own blood in his ears. He’s glad in a way that he doesn’t remember what the dream was because it must have been pure terror to carry over into the waking world like this, but at the same time he wishes he knew because then at least he could rationalize it away. If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning for those with anxiety/panic issues or anyone with an imagination as cruel and overactive as my own. If this is you, either drop me an ask at shennanigoats.tumblr.com or leave a comment on this chapter and I'll summarize so you can avoid issues without missing out on the story!

Dean wakes up with a start. He’s warm at the moment, huddled as he is under his blankets, but he can feel the chill on the skin of his face, taste it in the air he huffs in frantic gulps. The nightmare he woke from is shifting and shapeless in the back of his mind, indistinct except for the insidious, paralyzing dread that grips him. He doesn’t move except to heave his chest to gasp for air, trying in desperation to bring his heart rate down from the hummingbird staccato it’s drumming inside his chest. Adrenaline makes his senses sharp, but he can’t hear anything over the pounding rhythm of his own blood in his ears. He’s glad in a way that he doesn’t remember what the dream was because it must have been pure terror to carry over into the waking world like this, but at the same time he wishes he knew because then at least he could rationalize it away. If only.  


It’s the longest minute of his life as he comes back to himself, breath normalizing and the pounding of blood in his ears fading to a faint memory. The fear doesn’t go, though. Not completely. It’s latched on to him, barbs deep in his flesh and he can’t seem to dislodge them. It’s only now, with his breathing nearly silent and the heightened senses of a terrified prey animal letting him pick up on things he’d normally glaze over that he realizes how unnaturally still the air is. The curtains don’t stir and the room carries the impression that it doesn’t remember what wind feels like. It would be unsettling at any other time but right now with the vague, formless memory of a nightmare fresh in his mind it crawls under his skin, works its way in with insidious persistence until the sense of wrong is all he can focus on.  
He can’t put his finger on it, not really. If he had to set it down in words, he’d be hard pressed to tell what this particular kind of wrong feels like, what it means. He can’t identify anything meaningful about it except that it’s pervasive and he doesn’t like it. It’s not the clammy feeling of stepping into a basement long shut to the light, where the moisture clings to everything and the stale stench of mildew and damp and decay seeps into your pores and stays there long after you’ve left. It’s not the startling terror that comes from encountering something tangibly scary, a rabid wolf or one of those spiders that lays its eggs under your skin, the kind of wrong you can put a face and a name to, the kind of fear you can speak of in mixed company and expect understanding and sympathy to come from all corners. It’s not the kind of fear you know before you’ve felt it.  


Even now that it’s in him, poking into all the corners of his brain he tries to keep shut tight, he can’t get a good enough hold on it to say anything more specific than “horrifying.” Dean’s only focus is shrugging it off. He tries to think of something else, anything else. He can’t identify it so he can’t face it but if he can just distract himself long enough maybe his mind can shirk the feeling that he’s…oh. The feeling that he’s being watched. It’s not as reassuring as he’d hoped it would be; identifying the kind of fear he’s feeling. If this was some kind of a fairytale, some classic fable in the books his mother used to read to him from, this would be the moment where the hero draws strength from knowing what he’s facing and fate smiles upon him, giving him the power to face his once-nameless fears and stand tall in the face of adversity. Instead he shudders, now unable to forget the sharp and detailed idea of eyes staring at him out of the dark, cataloguing his every movement. If this were daylight and the eyes were human, real and tangible and attached to a person, he’d seek them out and face them. Dean has never been one to stand down from a fight. He’s never been an instigator but he’ll defend himself and land the necessary strikes to end any confrontation that’s dropped at his feet. This though, this can’t be defeated with fists. He’s fairly certain it can’t be fought with words either. He supresses a shudder at the realization that he just acknowledged the source of his fear as not human. It’s somehow worse now that he’s given it that distinction. He wishes he hadn’t.  


Dean focuses on his breathing. It’s a thing he can control, something he has power over. If he can just funnel enough of his energy into the steady repetition of inhale and exhale, constant and measured and even, it's not unreasonable to think that he might be able to lull himself back into the embrace of sleep, eke out a few more peaceful hours before he has to take Jess last minute Christmas shopping. She’s insistent that she needs to get Cas something. A Christmas gift slash host gift slash they're already so well paired it's like they've been friends for decades instead of three days and she wants to commemorate the occasion with a physical manifestation of mutual appreciation. Sam already begged off, claiming he has to wrap things because the TSA doesn't let you fly with wrapped parcels. Like that's an excuse. He needs to sleep if he's going to brave the last minute shopping crowds without getting arrested for multiple homicides. That sort of thing isn't in the Christmas spirit.  


He goes several minutes at least, he can't be sure because he hasn't even opened his eyes to look at the clock, but three, maybe four minutes of uninterrupted breathing, thinking about how it feels when he falls asleep comfortably somewhere without anything eerie intruding on his drifting thoughts. He thinks about how natural it feels to slip into oblivion on Cas’ couch after a night of drinking, mostly, because he can't actually think of a time in recent memory where he fell asleep somewhere other than home that wasn’t Cas’ couch. Dean tricks himself into thinking he’s calm now. There's a brief moment where he believes it, where the faint roar of his own snoring drags him from the half-sleep he's dozing in, that in-between place where you skim the edge of slumber, where you could easily be startled back to wakefulness. But that moment is gone like the mist of breath on a winters day, faded into the atmosphere almost the instant you perceive it, and his eyes snap open for the first time since he roused from his nightmare because it's not possible for Dean to have heard his own soft snoring, and he's now painfully aware that whatever it was he did hear, he can still hear it .  


He can't imagine a reality in which he’s capable of being quieter than he is now. In the near-silence of the room, the small something his ears pick up is a cacophony, rattling in his head and drowning out all the other sounds and thoughts that have a right to space there. He takes a breath and holds it as long as he can bear. In the amplified quiet that follows, Dean tries to locate the sound, triangulate it based where he knows the sounds of wind outside should come from and he's not even a little surprised but almost entirely dismayed when his makeshift echolocation tells him that the quarry he's not sure he wants to seek out is surely located behind his closet door.  


Dean hesitates; or maybe he cowers. He’ll never tell. He doesn't act immediately though. He tells himself he's being stupid. His imagination is playing a cruel trick on him and this sound he thinks he hears is all in his head. It's punishment for eating spicy food at ten pm. It's the truth of too many beers on too many consecutive nights and too few vegetables. Probably. But the thin, persistent buzzing won't be denied, won't be refused or ignored and it doesn't get louder, not really, but it gets stronger, like before it was a memory of something and now it's actually that thing, alive and present and asserting itself. That makes the decision for him. Dean won't be trifled with by his own brain, and he's not going to lose sleep over something that’s not even actually in his closet. His feet hit the cool floorboards and carry him to the light switch before doubt can change his mind. The light streams from the fixture in a predictable fashion and the room it illuminates looks identical to the way it did when he shut his eyes hours before, intent on a restful night’s sleep. How foolish.  


He strides back across the room on fleet feet, throws open the closet door with purpose and intent because he knows if he doesn't he’ll lose his resolve and shrink under the weight of the seething terror in the back of his mind. It's just a closet he tells himself in the imperceptibly small space between thought and action, while his hand is still heavy on the doorknob but his muscles haven't drawn it back yet. And then it's open. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he takes it in, but he needn’t have worried. It's just a closet still, full of sweaters he never wears and coats he forgot he owned and boxes of things, he has no idea what. The sound is still there, though, sharper now that it's not dampened by the wooden barrier his hand is still clutching. He lets out a heavy breath, apprehension still colouring all his perception, and sets about finding the source of the sound so he can silence it once and for all and pass into (hopefully) restful sleep for a few hours before he has to pick Jess up. All the coffee in the world won't help if he doesn't.  


The first box he pulls out of the shadows of the closet is impossibly light in his hands. He sets it down on the bed and pulls back the flaps with gentle fingers, trying desperately not to disturb the thin layer of dust that has settled on it as evidence of how long it's been since he's bothered to use his closet properly. Inside is a mishmash of clothing, his and Sam's and some of John’s, old threadbare flannels and jeans he wouldn't wear again if you paid him and at the bottom, a shirt so small he can barely believe it fit him once. The teddy-bear emblazoned on the front is worn and peeling at the edges but it proudly proclaims that the wearer “wuvs hugs,” and it makes Dean nostalgic, happy and sad all at the same time because at some point his mother put this shirt on him. He sets it aside, unable to let it sit at the bottom of a box any longer. If he gets around to it, he should probably donate the rest of the crap it was stored with.  


The next box is weightier. It's much more battered than the previous one and he suspects that it has followed them in some form for many years of moves, between cities and states and highways he barely remembers. It's full of books he doesn't recognise. They're probably Sam’s from before he left for school, novels and reference books and notepads full of Sam’s slanty letters. Dean doesn't bother digging too far in to them. Books aren't the source of the sound he seeks.  
Dean finds it nestled in the top of the fifth box he drags out of the closet, careful of the noise he makes lest his rummaging wake up the downstairs neighbour and subject him to her shrill complaints. He doesn’t really care that much if she loses a little sleep, he just doesn’t want to have an awkward conversation in the hallway again. She rolls her walker down the threadbare carpet so, so slowly, gripping the handle with gnarled fingers like tree roots, and there’s something unsettling in the way her rheumy eyes peer up at him. He’s avoided her as much as he can since the day she yelled at him for making too much noise moving his furniture in all those years ago.  
The box is indistinguishable from the rest on the outside. Dean probably should have labelled them better when he crammed them carelessly into the closet in the first place, but hindsight is the clearest of all visions. Even as he peels back the flaps, Dean has a sinking feeling that this is the one, the box that holds the source of his fear and his dread, and for a second he considers stuffing it back in to the darkest corner in the room and sleeping on the couch. Surely the sound won’t follow that far, and he can steal a few hours of rest in the living room and tackle the problem in the daylight. But in his heart of hearts, he knows that’s not going to work, so the box-tops unfold and he feasts his eyes on the contents.  


Dean knows he owned a little radio like this once. It’s been years since he remembers looking at it, but it’s recognisable immediately. He remembers sitting in his and Sam’s shared bedroom, although he doesn’t remember exactly what bedroom, because there were so many over the years and they’ve all blurred together into an amalgam memory. He doesn’t remember what made the bedroom in Boise different from the bedroom in Hartford, or what those two shared with the bedroom in a suburb of Topeka, but he remembers sitting on the bed that followed them between those three homes and countless others, listening to baseball games and classic rock and static on this radio. It was one of the only escapes he had as a child, forced to grow up too fast, thrust into the role of unwilling parent to a younger brother he knew needed to be shielded from the harsh reality of their transient life as long as he could possibly be kept from it. Dean has fond memories of this radio. He heard Metallica for the first time on this radio, back when they moved to a town big enough to have a radio station that played metal. He and Cas had taken it and a few stolen beers out to a half dried creek one summer afternoon, when John was upstate on a job or a bender or something and there was no one around to lecture Dean about responsibility and looking after Sammy. It was the summer before graduation, this he remembers clearly, because it was a tiny dose of freedom in what had started to feel like an oppressive prison in their house, and Sam was finally old enough that he could not only be left at home for an afternoon without Dean to look after him, but could be trusted not to tell John that he’d been left there.  


The creek had been a steady stream in the spring months but now it was a fetid trickle, muddy and brown and barely damp. The August heat had sapped its strength just as it sapped the energy from Dean and Cas as they trekked through the fallow field of a farm long abandoned and laid a battered blanket near the bank that the creek had once lapped against. They spent the better part of the afternoon there, basking in the sun and talking of nothing and listening to the only radio station they could pick up in that particular location. Cas hadn’t been a fan of the Metallica song when it came on, thin and strained and muffled by static, but Dean proclaimed himself a fan immediately. He remembers that distinctly.  


He also remembers dropping this very radio in the remnants of the creek an hour later when they’d leapt across to investigate some old, abandoned farm equipment on the other side. He remembers that it never worked after that, not after repeated attempts to dry it out and new batteries and everything else he could think to try. He doesn’t know why he kept it. He doesn’t know why it’s making static now, nearly a decade later, because the battery compartment is wide open, its cover lost so long ago, and there’s no batteries in there, only corrosion and dead space. But it pops and fizzles all the same, the hiss of white noise permeating the relative silence of the room and playing at his nerves and driving Dean so close to the edge of madness he can almost feel his toes curling over the lip of the cliff.  
Dean stares at the little radio for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Any actions he can conceive seem pointless and impotent, but he can’t do nothing, can’t bring himself to let the white noise live. The volume knob is the most obvious choice, and therefore is obviously not going to help but he twists it anyway. The smooth counter clockwise motion softens the noise somewhat but it’s still there, nagging at him and taunting him. He adjusts the frequency, but all he finds is static, on every band, on every frequency, on AM and FM. Static and noise.  


There’s nothing to be done for the radio. In the morning, he’ll throw it into the dumpster and be done with it, but for now he either needs to learn to ignore it and find sleep or distract himself from the persistent hiss and crackle. He sets the offending thing on top of his dresser where he can keep an eye on it then settles cross-legged onto the floor in front of the box it sat inside for countless years and busies himself digging through its contents. The box of clothes is wasting space, the radio is a dead memento. Maybe this box contains more things he should have let go of long ago.  


Dean has no idea why he bothered keeping the stack of bank statements and phone bills and other sundry paperwork that litters the top third of the box he found the radio in. There might have been a time when he felt like it was the mature thing to do, or, more likely, he stuffed them into the box and closed it up so he could avoid dealing with them. Under the stack of pages he finds a yearbook, senior year. He sets it aside, not quite ready to take the nostalgic journey its pages will hold. Maybe later. Maybe in the daylight. The photographs that slip from its pages are a different story altogether. The first is Sam, draped in the blue robe of a graduate, cap in hand, face split by a wide grin. Dean doesn’t recall if he took the picture or if John did. There was a lot of photography that day. He feels a smile creep onto his face, the dread receding for a moment as he’s flooded with memories of Sam striding across the stage to collect his diploma, clapping friends on the back in boisterous joy as they milled around afterwards, the young Winchester still head and shoulders above his classmates even at seventeen. It’s one of the few events of their high school years that wasn’t ruined by John’s drinking. He’d still been drunk of course, though Dean would never let Sam in on that secret. He just hadn’t been the awful, belligerent kind of drunk that coloured the majority of their days. This had been a rare emergence of John’s happy drunk side, the glassy eyed, broad smiling version that made Dean hate him even more because he couldn’t even blame the booze for his behaviour anymore. If he could drink all day and smile and show warmth for this one occasion, then it no longer passed muster to halfway excuse his rage and incoherence all the other times he drank the same way. If he could drink all day and not lash out with his fists this time, then the other times weren’t the booze’s fault at all. That was all John.  


Dean tucks the picture back inside the cover of the yearbook without looking at it again. His thoughts are dark enough without thinking too long on John right now. The next picture is Dean sprawled on a couch, shirt rucked up and arms flailed haphazardly. He appears to be sleeping, but really he’s passed out drunk. The only reason there aren’t a multitude of dicks drawn on his face is because Cas took the permanent markers away from Sam five minutes before this picture was taken. Or so he’s told.  


The rest of the pictures dredge up happier memories. He flips through snapshots of his life and remembers fondly the stories that go with each of them. It’s a little confusing to approach them in this manner, all out of order and without context. Someone else might have organized them into an album. Cas would have put them in chronological order with notation as to when and where they were taken. Cas would have written down the stories that Dean is just now recalling, preserving them for posterity with acid-free ink on heavy bond paper in little plastic sleeves, because he’s perfect like that. Cas probably has an album somewhere that has all these same pictures presented in exactly that fashion. He’s probably titled it something clever. There’s probably stickers. Dean will have to ask him about that.  


Before he realizes it, the sun is rising. Dean glances at the clock on his night stand and realizes he’s survived the night, shielded in the cloak of nostalgic reverie. He didn’t note the passing of time as he thumbed through the photos, instead letting each one show him a memory he’d somehow tucked away in the corners of his mind, hidden behind curtains he never drew back. The memories were always there of course, but it was easy to pretend he was living in the now instead of running from the holes they left if he didn’t think too hard on it. The pictures dredged it all up.  


The last photo in his hand, as the sun peeks weakly through the curtains and casts pale light across his empty bed is a still frame of himself and Castiel. Cas is exuberantly drunk at the moment preserved therein, his eyes narrow and his mouth wide by comparison, hollering something the picture doesn’t capture. Dean doesn’t remember what the words were. He remembers the night, though. Cas’ 21st birthday. A nightclub long since closed, reopened under several new names since, though they hadn’t gone to that place in any of its incarnations in several years. More shots of tequila than either of them had a right to consume. A girl with dark hair and blue eyes that Dean should have gone home with, he really should have, but he didn’t because it was Cas’ night. He’d told Cas as much, after he watched the girl walk out of the club with some other guy. Ah. Yes. Now he remembers what Cas was yelling.  


“You’re an idiot!”  


“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he’d replied, mere seconds after the picture was taken. He remembers the frown on Cas’ face as clearly as if he’d had a photograph of it. Maybe he does, somewhere in one of these boxes.  


The apartment is so quiet Dean could hear a pin drop. He stands, back and legs and ass screaming in complaint of his hours on the floor pawing through photographs. It’s a calm, peaceful kind of quiet and Dean realizes while he’s digging through his drawers for fresh underwear and jeans and socks that it’s because the radio has fallen silent. He doesn’t pause to think too long on that, just strides to the bathroom with a spring in his step that he can’t source, and if he’s in a better mood that day than sleep deprivation has ever let him be before, he’ll tell himself it’s because Jessica is excellent company, and because she’s going to buy him coffee on the way to the mall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm not very nice, am I? I think Dean needs a hug.
> 
> Come holler your obscenities at me on tumblr! Shennanigoats.tumblr.com


	5. December 24th, 5:27 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look like you’re a million miles away.” Cas’s voice is calm and clear, but his eyes fall on Dean with no small look of concern. He sees something on Dean’s face that he won’t put words to. Dean smiles.
> 
> “Just thinkin’ how great it looks in here. Very…Christmas-y,” Dean says as he claps his friend on the shoulder. There’s a nanosecond where the beginnings of a frown form on Cas’ face, a tiny downward tug at the corners of his mouth before a warm smile blossoms, brightening his face in a way that makes Dean’s own smile turn into something much more sincere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is such a shortie that I really didn't feel right taking up a spot in the regular posting schedule. It's just so tiny! So have a bonus little chapter full of fluff and joy. Don't get too comfy with the comfort. I promise it's not going to last

Sam and Jess are already seated comfortably on Cas’ couch when Dean walks in carrying two sizeable bags of Chinese takeout. Cas takes them from him with a broad grin and quickly fills the void in his hand with a cold beer. The bottle is already open, and Dean notes with appreciation that this is just the kind of simple, considerate thing Cas does for people, day in and day out. It would be insanely easy to take it for granted because Cas never makes a big deal out of any of the multitude of ways he goes out of his way for the people around him. He never asks to be noticed or demands acknowledgement. He just does nice things. Dean makes a mental note to mention these things more. The last thing he wants to do is take advantage of Cas’ kindness.

As he sips his beer, Dean scans the room. The tree was here yesterday when Dean stopped by to drop off wrapped gifts, not wanting to lug them up with take-out tonight. Cas has added decorations since then, though. There’s more ornaments, and lights strung in strips along the ceiling. They twinkle like a myriad of stars against the popcorn stucco. There’s a wreath on the back of the door and four stockings hung on the entertainment unit, just below the screen of Cas’ exceptionally large television. It gives the place a new dimension of comfort, like memories are being made here even as he watches.

“You look like you’re a million miles away.” Cas’s voice is calm and clear, but his eyes fall on Dean with no small look of concern. He sees something on Dean’s face that he won’t put words to. Dean smiles.

“Just thinkin’ how great it looks in here. Very…Christmas-y,” Dean says as he claps his friend on the shoulder. There’s a nanosecond where the beginnings of a frown form on Cas’ face, a tiny downward tug at the corners of his mouth before a warm smile blossoms, brightening his face in a way that makes Dean’s own smile turn into something much more sincere.

“Come on. Let’s eat this takeout before it gets cold.” Whatever it is that made Cas want to frown there, he’s not speaking about it.

 

Dean insists on watching Die Hard.

“It’s a Christmas tradition,” he pleads, ignoring Sam’s laughter. “It is the perfect Christmas movie. German terrorists. Gun fights. Intrepid limo drivers. _Alan Rickman_ ,” he emphasises the last, playing on how much Sam loved the Harry Potter movies. He gets his way in the end, cackling with delight as they settle in with plates of ginger beef and chow mein and egg rolls. This is how Christmas is meant to be spent. Not like the ones he knew growing up. They’d get some socks if they got anything at all, and the tree was usually just some two foot tall potted thing from the grocery store, more suited for adorning an office’s reception desk than a child’s Christmas memories. John would drink on Christmas eve because it was just like any other night, and then he’d drink on Christmas morning because it was just like any other morning, and they’d go back to school in January and listen to the stories other kids told of exciting new toys and fresh baked cookies and trees so tall you couldn’t reach the top. Dean always felt a pang of regret in his gut when he listened; not for himself, but for Sam. Dean had real Christmases before mom died. He had at least a few memories of leaving cookies out for Santa and waking up early to race down the stairs to see what the fat man had left for him. He had memories of John and Mary smiling together, watching him open his presents with an unbridled enthusiasm he can’t recall applying to anything in recent years. He has good memories that take the edge off the disappointing ones. Sam doesn’t have that. Sam doesn’t have any memories of their mom, at Christmas or any other time of year. There aren’t even any pictures to show and say “Look Sam, things were good once. You had this. You got Christmas,” because she died just over a month before Sam’s very first Christmas. There aren’t even any memories left for anyone to tell him about.

“This isn’t very festive,” Sam blurts out, as John McClane steals a machine gun off the still-warm corpse of a terrorist and sends his body off in the elevator as a message. “This is the least Christmas-y Christmas movie of all time.” Dean turns to glare at him where he’s curled up on the love-seat with Jess. Dean is seated on the far side of the couch, Cas sprawled out with his feet on the cushions beside Dean.

“Oh yeah? I suppose you have a more appropriate selection?” Dean challenges, leaving his perch on the couch to return his empty bottle to the kitchen and claim another from the fridge. “Anyone what another round?” He returns with four more bottles, making sure to open Cas’ before he hands it over. The bottle cap drops on the table with a soft clink.

“Miracle on 34th Street? It’s a Wonderful Life? The Santa Clause? Elf? The Grinch? Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer?” Sam’s voice grows more incredulous with each title.

“ _You’re_ …Rudolph…the red nosed….Moose! So there.” Dean snaps back, earning a giggle from Jess, a murderous glare from Sam, and a rolling belly laugh from Cas. Dean revels in the sound of a house full of laughter. It really does feel like Christmas.

 

Sam’s not wrong. Any one of those movies would have been considerably more traditional. But Sam hasn’t grown up with traditions, so it’s natural for him to gravitate towards the kind of things that are common threads between people’s family Christmas memories. Dean remembers the one Christmas he spent with Lisa and her family. It was awkward. He hated being an outsider there, the new guy, the one the eldest daughter brought home to meet the folks and intrude on their traditions. None of it was familiar, and he’s pretty sure the stiff, cold reception he’d gotten from her parents was a large factor in the breakdown a few months later. It’s weird being a part of traditions that aren’t your own, ones that don’t matter to you. Lisa’s family had a formal dinner on Christmas eve that year just as they did every year before. It was stuffy, and although Dean tried to be engaging and friendly, he’d never been that great of a conversationalist when it came to parents so he’d known long before the sympathetic looks Lisa’s siblings started giving him that it wasn’t a shining performance. She told him she wasn’t mad, and that might even have been true, but in the weeks that followed it became obvious that something had shifted between them. She never came right out and said it. Not even during the actual breakup, where they’d both yelled, screamed things they both meant but knew they never should have said out loud, did she ever mention how horrible an impression he’d left on her parents. But the cold that settled in to their lives in January and February of that year had been a strong match for the chill that blanketed the city that winter. It was the same kind of cold that gripped his apartment these days; the kind that gnawed at you and sunk its teeth in, the kind that refused to let go. His apartment hadn’t felt that cold back then. Or maybe it had and he hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t know. He just knows that you can’t insert yourself into someone else’s traditions and expect it to feel like home. You have to make your own.

So they don’t watch Rudolph. They don’t watch the Grinch. They don’t watch the Santa Clause, not because of traditions but because _Tim Allen, fuck that guy._ They watch Die Hard, and Dean recites as many lines as he can get away with before Cas smacks him with a throw cushion.

“We can’t hear the movie, Dean,” Cas says, but there’s no heat to his voice. It’s playful just like the smile that graces his lips for a brief fraction of a second before he catches himself and wipes it away. Dean notices though and in the quiet minutes that follow, while everyone else is too intent on their drinks to catch Dean’s retreat into his own head, he mulls curiously over the knowledge that he was looking closely enough at Cas’ lips to pick up on the slash of a grin before it faded.

 

Dean could easily have fallen asleep the minute Die Hard ended. He wears his cocksure bravado like a shield but underneath it he’s worn ragged and fragile by the lack of sleep, and anyone who knows where to look can see the cracks plain as day. He stifles a yawn as the credits roll, but he knows it’s too early for everyone else to want to sleep, and they’re sitting on his bed at the moment so he shakes off the exhaustion, pretends it’s not real just like he pretends everything else he doesn’t want to deal with isn’t real and tries to be good company a little while longer. It’s Christmas, after all.

Cas hands him a tumbler of eggnog. There’s enough rum in it that Dean can smell the alcohol before he even lifts the glass to his lips. Cas smiles fondly as he sinks back onto the couch, his legs crossed under him. Sam and Jess are off in their own little world, still curled up on the loveseat, moon-eyed and happy. Dean feels his heart swell to look at them. His brother deserves happiness. Jess seems like the kind of girl that could give it to him. He wonders if they’ll get married one day.

There’s some sitcom Christmas special on TV. Dean’s not really paying attention. It seems to focus around the patriarch of the family having forgotten to buy something specific and the panic that ensues while he tries to locate one on Christmas Eve. Dean laughs along with the laugh track and nods when someone else comments, but between the beers and the eggnog and the belly full of Chinese food and the lack of a real night’s sleep in recent memory have him fighting with everything he’s got just to maintain consciousness. Either his companions notice or they’re tired too, because as soon as the stupid sitcom delivers a pointed lesson about the true meaning of Christmas, Sam stands up and stretches and announces that he and Jess are going to go to bed. She smiles warmly and waves over her shoulder as they retreat to the spare room, and Cas stays behind long enough to clear the bottles and glasses from the table and help Dean collect spare bedding from the hall closet. Dean’s asleep mere seconds after the soft click of Cas’ bedroom door latching behind him, the little white lights twinkling against the ceiling like his own personal galaxy of stars.

 

 


	6. December 25th,  7:10 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean replies, and hands Cas his favourite mug full of coffee and Baileys. That’s another Christmas tradition he means to start; booze in the coffee, first thing. Cas sniffs the mug distrustfully, because Dean never makes coffee and Cas is very particular about these things, but Dean has watched Cas make coffee enough times to mimic the process and he’s fairly confident that he’s replicated it pretty convincingly. The contented noise Cas makes as he takes his first sip is confirmation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am eternally thrilled that I've managed to frighten the lot of you with my little work. Your comments give me life! Thank you so much!

Surprisingly, Dean is the first one awake in the morning, or at least he’s the first one out of bed. He stays curled up under the blankets for about half an hour, hoarding the warmth he’s collected throughout the night before he realises that this isn’t his stupid apartment and he’s not going to shiver in the chill air the second he slides out from under the covers. When his feet hit the floor, it’s not cold against his skin, and he putters around the kitchen in his boxer shorts making coffee and tidying up without even shivering or getting goosebumps. It’s a nice change. Dean’s always enjoyed lounging around in his underwear. Pants are for company. It’s easy to forget that this isn’t home, that he’s company here. At least it’s easy to forget until he hears the distant sound of a door opening and before he has a chance to react, Cas strolls in to the kitchen in a pair of lounge pants and no shirt, scrubbing a hand through the mess of hair that adorns his head.

“Merry Christmas,” Cas rasps, his voice hoarse and raw in the early morning. He’s usually up so long before Dean that Dean can’t actually recall if he usually sleeps without a shirt, if he usually looks this dishevelled in the morning, if his voice usually takes on that hoarse tone before he’s had his coffee. He’s almost always on his second or third cup before Dean opens his eyes to the world.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean replies, and hands Cas his favourite mug full of coffee and Baileys. That’s another Christmas tradition he means to start; booze in the coffee, first thing. Cas sniffs the mug distrustfully, because Dean never makes coffee and Cas is very particular about these things, but Dean _has_ watched Cas make coffee enough times to mimic the process and he’s fairly confident that he’s replicated it pretty convincingly. The contented noise Cas makes as he takes his first sip is confirmation.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” Cas mentions casually. His voice has lost the rasp of his first words, and he sounds like Cas again.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean admits, not sure what to do with the pronouncement. He probably should have put his jeans back on when he woke up, but…comfort. “I guess I’m not.” He shrugs and moves back toward the living room to grab his discarded pants, adding “I suppose I should have thought to bring some pyjamas.” He’s got the jeans in hand, one foot hovering in the air as he steps in to them when Cas replies.

“I could lend you a pair if you want. I think sweatpants are the standard attire for Christmas morning.” Dean nods gratefully because the last thing he wants to do is put on yesterday’s clothes and sit around in them all morning. He’s about to make a joke about finally getting in to Cas’ pants after all these years of friendship but it dies in his throat when he realizes what he almost said, because where the hell did that come from and how fucking inappropriate could he possibly be? Instead, he settles in to a chair at the kitchen table and sips his boozy coffee while Cas throws an apron on over his bare chest and starts making cinnamon rolls. Dean doesn’t try to understand the process that turns flour and shortening and yeast into delicious baked goodness, he just likes watching it happen.

Cinnamon rolls are a really involved process, apparently. Cas makes dough and then sets it aside before tidying up and joining Dean at the table with a second mug of coffee. Roughly an hour later, he gets back up to punch the dough down and roll it out, and then there’s butter and sugar and cinnamon and the kitchen is starting to smell amazing. Dean wishes breakfast was ready, wishes his lazy brother would get out of bed soon. He’s starving. Once the rolls are cut and arranged in the pan, Cas lays a clean towel over them and goes over to rummage around in the fridge. Dean raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“I forgot how long these things take. I’m ravenous. Leftovers?” Dean smiles and nods because yes, that’s exactly what he was thinking.

They’re half way through leftover chow mein, warmed in the microwave, when Sam and Jess finally show their faces. Sam’s hair is a chaotic nightmare, standing up every which way until he drags the fingers of one hand casually through it and suddenly he’s effortlessly coiffed. Dean glances over at Cas, who’s been up for hours and still looks like he’s never been introduced to a hair brush in his life. The contrast is pretty funny, but he knows better than to poke fun at Cas’ hair by this point in time, so he keeps the joke to himself.

“What time is it?” Sam groans, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He looks like he probably drank more than was wise the night before and Dean supposes that’s probably true. Dean paced himself, already exhausted as he was, but Sam had no such motivation. Jess looks radiant as always. If she’s feeling the after-effects of too many drinks she’s keeping the secret to herself. She rests a hand casually on Sam’s arm as they sit at the table. In almost any other scenario Dean would say the gesture looks possessive, but with them it speaks only of affection and warmth. It makes Sam smile. It makes Dean smile.

“Nine Thirty,” Cas replies, setting a mug of coffee down in front of each of them and offering the bottle of Baileys. They each pour a generous portion into their beverages before anyone speaks again.  
“Your spare bed is really comfortable,” Jess offers before taking a sip of her drink. “Although I think someone here passed out more than slept last night. You’ll have to excuse him. He’s a bit of a grump in the mornings these days.”

“That’s not a new thing,” Dean replies, and he’s not kidding. He can recall with startling accuracy what it feels like to be clocked square in the jaw with an errant fist for waking Sam up too roughly. He only made that mistake two, maybe three times before he learned his lesson.

“You guys awake enough for Christmas presents or do you need an IV drip of caffeine before we get started?” Cas, ever the gracious host, tops up Dean’s coffee without even asking because he knows Dean will drink every drop he offers until it’s at least noon and he’s had a meal. They traipse into the living room with no little grumbling from Sam and Cas puts on a playlist of Christmas tunes because of course he took the time to hand-select his favourite versions of all the old Christmas classics. Of course he did. As they settle in to the couch, coffee mugs in hand, Cas busies himself around the tree, selecting parcels and setting them down in front of their intended recipients and moving about the room with a casual grace that puts Dean at ease. Dean’s excited though. He put a lot of thought into his gifts this year and he’s pretty sure they’ll hit the mark. He’s so focused on the reactions that he kinda forgets there’s gifts sitting in front of him, waiting to be opened.

“Dean?” Cas asks, snapping his attention back to the present. “You with us?” Dean laughs, a little embarrassed.

“Yeah, just drifting.” He picks up the first parcel in front of him, a largish box in red and gold paper with Cas’ handwriting on the label. He looks expectantly at his friend and Cas just shrugs. Tearing in to the paper and pulling open the box, Dean finds leather conditioner and soft, lint free cloths, and a plain white envelope.

“It’s this mobile detailing company I found. They’ll come to wherever your car is and do a full interior and exterior job on it. I know how much you love that car,” Cas says, and Dean feels a bit of a knot form in his throat. It’s thoughtful, which isn’t a surprise because thoughtful is Cas’ middle name, but it makes him feel…something. He can’t put his finger on what. So he just smiles and lifts the envelope out of the box. Underneath it he catches a little glint of silver.

On one end of the short chain is a split ring. The other holds a smaller version of the Chevrolet badge, a stylized cross symbol, gold inlaid into silver. He picks it up and flips it over, and his eyes pause on the inscription. It’s simple block lettering, just four letters, but he smiles fondly, first at the nickname and then at Cas. “Baby,” it says, because that’s the only name the car has ever had.

“She’s the only girl in your life these days,” Cas says, his voice warm and fond. “I suppose that makes her pretty special.” Dean can’t argue, so he murmurs a thanks that doesn’t even come close to touching on how grateful he feels, and hides the emotion on his face behind his coffee mug. The look in Cas’ eyes says he knows how Dean feels though. That counts for something.

Dean feels like his own gift falls somewhat short after that but he watches intently as Cas opens it anyway. He’s found a first edition of Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in a second hand store and paired it with the only kitchen accessory he could even fathom the existence of that he knew for a fact Cas didn’t have, a waffle maker. The book is worn from years of use and there’s definitely spills on some of the pages, but its still in perfectly serviceable condition. And Cas has always liked old things. Dean couldn’t wrap his head around _why_ Cas wouldn't have a waffle maker, but he felt very strongly that Cas should own one. The fact that Dean might eventually get to eat said waffles was completely not a motivating factor at all. Cas makes a big show of being touched by the consideration.

Dean’s stuffing wrapping paper and ribbon into a garbage bag when he notices Sam looking around the room shiftily. His eyes dart and his hands open and close in a nervous gesture Dean knows well enough to recognize and well enough not to mention. Then, as if something changed and resolved the question for him, Sam is on his feet and across the room, reaching in to the branches of the tree for something small and secret, stashed away there where apparently only Sam would know to look for it. Jess starts to ask a question but it dies on her lips when Sam pushes an errant lock of hair out of his eyes and sinks to one knee in front of her. He proffers the found object, a small purple velvet box, and Dean doesn’t need to see what’s in it because he can see the look on Jess’ face.

“Jess I…” Sam starts, and his voice catches. “I love you so much,” he tries again. It doesn’t matter that he can’t get the words out. Jess’ arms are around his neck in the blink of an eye and she’s letting out a noise that’s somewhere between a squeal and a delighted pterodactyl. Dean grimaces, but it’s half hearted.

“Yes, Sam! Of course I’ll marry you!!!!” Dean looks away as they kiss, and he and Cas share a glance. There’s something lingering in it that Dean can’t put words to, a sad tinge to the happiness like Cas is envious or melancholy behind the joy he feels for Sam and Jess. Cas blinks and it’s gone and Dean is left wondering what his friend is mulling over behind those blue eyes.

“Well, this calls for a celebration!” Cas calls out, and starts mixing champagne and orange juice in tall fluted glasses. The ring is on Jess’ finger now, catching light from a multitude of angles and throwing it back off the facets in a sparkling array. Her face is even brighter. Sam’s face dwarfs them both in apparent magnitude. He had to have known she was going to say yes, but the nervous ticks from a few moments before let Dean know he doubted it, and he’s relieved to have the ring on her hand now. It makes Dean happier than he knew he could be, seeing his brother find something this good. It makes everything they went through growing up seem worth it, like all the hurt was necessary to prime Sam for the joy he has now. Dean claps his brother on the back and congratulates him earnestly. He deserves it.


	7. December 27th, 4:57pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean lets out an exaggerated breath as he sits in the driver’s seat of the Impala. Everything seems so unreasonably quiet now that Sam’s gone home. He knows it’s an illusion. Sam was never in his apartment, not even for a minute on this trip. But as soon as Sam and Jess were out of the car, before they even entered the terminal and long before they were out of his sight, Dean felt a heaviness settle back into his chest. He hadn’t even recognized the absence of it during the weeklong visit. The familiar comfort of seeing his brother again banished whatever anxiety he struggled with through the rest of winter’s chill and let him cling to a semblance of life and peace and breath again. Now though, steel bands encompass his chest and each breath he draws is shallower than the last until he thinks he might suffocate under the oppression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another exceptionally short chapter, so we're doubling up again. Consider it a gift. Or an apology. Whichever.

Dean lets out an exaggerated breath as he sits in the driver’s seat of the Impala. Everything seems so unreasonably quiet now that Sam’s gone home. He knows it’s an illusion. Sam was never in his apartment, not even for a minute on this trip. But as soon as Sam and Jess were out of the car, before they even entered the terminal and long before they were out of his sight, Dean felt a heaviness settle back into his chest. He hadn’t even recognized the absence of it during the weeklong visit. The familiar comfort of seeing his brother again banished whatever anxiety he struggled with through the rest of winter’s chill and let him cling to a semblance of life and peace and breath again. Now though, steel bands encompass his chest and each breath he draws is shallower than the last until he thinks he might suffocate under the oppression.  


He’s being stupid and he knows it. He pushes the creeping thoughts to the back of his mind and turns the key in the ignition, letting the familiar rumble of his car soothe him. He lets it idle for a few minutes. As the engine gets warmer and starts pumping hot air in through the vents, he’s able to wrest a small sense of calm out from under the strain. It’s a tenuous hold but he clings to it, easing the car out of the parking lot and following the signs back to the highway  


The unsettled feeling clings to Dean the whole drive back from the airport. He takes the familiar turns, merging here, bearing left there and he’s pulling into the parking lot at the back of his apartment before he really realizes it. Hands jammed in pockets, he takes the stairs two at a time. Taking the elevator always carries the possibility of running into the creepy old woman from down stairs. Besides, he’s only on the third floor. It’s not that many stairs. He can handle it. It has nothing to do with the fact that the stairs take longer than the elevator and that delays the inevitability of returning to his apartment. Nothing at all.  


Nothing’s changed when he opens the door. The apartment is still and cold and unwelcoming. Everything in it is his, but it still doesn’t feel like home. Dean wracks his brain trying to recall when it last felt like home. He can’t settle on a date. A part of his consciousness suggests that perhaps it never actually did, that maybe he was just in denial from day one and he’s only now coming to terms with it. He pushes the idea away. Dean Winchester doesn’t do introspection. It’s not in his programming. Instead, he shuts the door without even crossing the threshold and heads back outside. He doesn’t need this empty apartment, this soul-crushing feeling of dread. He needs a stiff drink or seven, and a bar full of people. He needs a distraction

When Dean comes back several hours later, he falls in to bed without analysing his surroundings. The heady warmth of bourbon makes it easy to forget the chill in the air, and it takes him out of his own thoughts enough that he can pretend he doesn’t feel like an unwelcome visitor in this space. He passes out more than falls asleep and if anything terrifying happens between midnight and dawn, he’s too drunk to be woken by it.


	8. December 31st, 9:25 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s almost midnight,” Cas offers, picking up the remote and skimming through the channels until he finds that stupid live broadcast from New York with the pop singers and the crowds in Times Square. Dean doesn’t recognize the blonde singer in her sequins and sparkles, but he’s never paid much attention to that shit anyway so that’s not really a surprise. “I don’t remember the last time I spent New Years’ with anyone.” Cas’ voice is low and rough, the words spoken softly. Dean turns to look at Cas, swivelling his head slowly and he sees nothing to put meaning to the words betrayed on Cas’ face. He opts for casual humour. If Cas is trying to say something else, he’ll say it, Dean tells himself.

The guys from the garage tried their hardest to drag Dean to a party. They really did. They promised plentiful booze and attractive women and good times, and all three of those things sounded interesting to Dean in theory, but he can’t pretend he’s got the stamina to put on a good face for that many hours in a house full of people. He’s operating on such a deficit of sleep these days it’s a wonder he can string two words together coherently and an even bigger miracle he hasn’t yet fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed into a building. So when Cas suggested with no hint of judgement that he might prefer a quiet night in for New Years, his relief was palpable. It’s not really any different than their usual Friday night plans except that it’s a Wednesday. Dean only returned to his apartment after work just long enough to shower and change, pointedly not looking at the foggy mirror as he stepped out in case some invisible hand had chosen to leave him another message, and left without a backward glance. He’d rather be at Cas’ lately anyway.

Currently, they’re watching Pulp Fiction and drinking heavily. Cas doesn’t have anything to escape from, or at least nothing he’s chosen to speak of, but Dean’s running from his apartment and his fears and his own mind, so he’s already on his fifth beer. Cas is matching him lockstep. It’s oddly comforting to acknowledge. Just like always, Cas is right there beside him. The Christmas decorations are down and packed away in Cas’ storage locker in the basement of the building and it looks like the same old apartment again. There’s no sparkling lights on the ceiling, no stockings, no tree. No evidence left that Christmas happened. Dean thinks it’s strange how you can erase an event so completely like that, leaving nothing but memories that it ever happened. If there was any justice, things would leave a mark on the world. There would be proof things happened.

Cas hands him a sixth beer, already open, and un-pauses the movie. It’s the Royale with cheese conversation and neither of them is really paying any attention to the movie. They’ve seen it too many times for that to be necessary. It’s background noise mostly, something to fill the air and backstop their conversations. Something to kill the time until they can turn on the countdown and ring in the new year.

“Have Sam and Jess set a date yet?” Cas asks. Dean shakes his head.

“No, he said they want to wait until this summer to do any actual planning. Too much going on with school for both of them. But probably next summer.”

“You going to fly out for the wedding?” Cas takes a long drink off his beer, his face flushed slightly with inebriation. He’s always had a high tolerance for alcohol and Dean’s barely feeling it even as exhausted as he is so Cas can’t be drunk yet, but his cheeks are pink and his eyes are just a little brighter than usual. Dean shakes his head again.

“No fucking way. I’ll take extra time off and drive out to California. I love my brother to pieces but I’m not getting in an airplane if I can avoid it. You should ride with me. We’ll road trip it. It’ll be great.” Dean’s mind is suddenly filled of images of himself and Cas in the Impala, windows down to combat the summer heat, rolling down the interstate with no cares in the world.

“I’d like that.” Cas smiles warmly. “I assume you’ll be best man?”

“Yeah Sam asked me about that before I took them to the airport. You know, like I’d say no or anything.” He laughs like he means it. It’s a clear, honest sound and it fills the room. Laughter feels normal here. This room is made for laughter. In Dean’s apartment it echoes off the bare walls and feels hollow and false. Or at least it had, last time there’d been laughter there. He can’t recount how long ago that was. “Jess’ best friend is going to be her maid of honour apparently. She’s an only child. I guess they’re going to have a pretty small wedding party.” Cas nods, taking in the details.

When they’ve each finished their sixth beer, Cas decides it’s time to switch to something harder, so Dean finds himself with bourbon on the rocks. Cas usually enjoys the finer liquors, single malt and aged and from legacy distilleries, but this isn’t a night for primly savouring high quality spirts, this is a night for getting drunk. So instead of Macallan or Lagavulin, it’s Wild Turkey. Dean’s more accustomed to the cheap stuff anyway. The burn is familiar and it warms him from the inside in the way that only cheap liquor can, fire in his belly and his veins. This makes Dean feel more alive than he has in weeks.

“What’s going on with you, Dean?” Cas asks. Dean stalls for time with another sip off his drink, so fresh that the ice hasn’t had a chance to melt and dilute the stuff at all. It’s still warm in his mouth.

“I’m just a little distracted tonight. Sorry.” He knows better than to think he’s going to get off that easy, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Bullshit,” Cas spits, but there’s still warmth and acceptance in his voice. “You’re not sleeping, are you? I can see it on your face.” Dean starts to shake his head in denial but stops himself. It’s not going to do any good. Cas is devastatingly perceptive. If he’s saying something, it’s not a hunch. He’s seen enough that he’s already sure and he’s just coming to Dean for confirmation. Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, though. He desperately wants to talk about anything else at all.

“I’m sleeping,” Dean counters. “Like three, four hours a night. That’s not nothing.” He shrugs like he’s casual. He’s anything but.

“You can’t function like that,” Cas points out like it’s not something Dean’s considered repeatedly and all but acknowledged. Still, Dean goes on the defensive. If he can just convince Cas he’s ok, he can end this conversation and talk about something else. Baseball. Sam’s engagement. World Politics. The Twilight Movies. _Anything_.

“Yeah I know. But I’ll be fine. I’ve just been having a hard time falling asleep lately. It’ll pass,” he lies. He doesn’t believe it and he doubts Cas does either.

“It’s that apartment, isn’t it? It’s making you sick.” Cas refills their drinks—Dean didn’t even realize he’d finished his, but it doesn’t matter because there’s a fresh measure of bourbon there now and he sips it gratefully.

“Nah, it’s just insomnia. I’ll be fine.” Cas regards him carefully for a moment before speaking again.

“It’s not _just insomnia_ , Dean. I know you. You can sleep through anything. If you’re not sleeping, something is going on. I think you need a change of scenery. You should get out of that apartment, at least for a few days. Come stay in my spare room. Clear your head, get a few good nights’ sleep under your belt and look at things with fresh eyes. You need it. You’re going to burn out.” Cas reaches a hand out, touches Dean’s elbow gently. It’s a reassuring gesture that makes some of the tension in Dean’s shoulders ease out. There’s no judgement here, it says. Cas is just worried about him. Cas just cares.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean replies noncommittally. “I’ll think about it.” He’s actually kind of considering it, but he doesn’t want to tell Cas that. He’ll take it as a hardline yes and then Dean will feel pressured to take him up on the offer. Cas is probably right, though. If Dean could just get a couple consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep without the aid of alcohol, he’d probably feel a thousand times better. He’d probably be able to rationalize away the problems that are keeping him from sleeping in the first place and maybe get his shit in order and start to behave like a functional adult again. But taking Cas up on the offer means admitting there _is_ a problem, and he’s so far from being ready to have that conversation it’s not even measurable. So he goes back to his bourbon and Pulp Fiction, and lets the conversation fade off.

 

The movie ends and midnight nears, and Dean is definitely feeling the combined effects of a steady stream of alcohol and sleeplessness. He’s got an excellent buzz going and between the booze and the good company, Dean’s in a pretty good mood. The earlier heavy conversation is essentially forgotten, or at the very least, there’s a collective agreement not to talk about it any longer.

He’s lost track of how many times Cas refilled his glass throughout the evening. They’re not measured drinks anyway, so it’s not like the number would have given him any real idea of how much he’s had to drink, but he’s sure it’s a lot. Cas has matched him ounce for ounce the whole way through the evening and though his words aren’t slurring, his cheeks are deeply flushed and his blue eyes are bright and glassy. Cas laughs boisterously, Dean’s not sure what for because he’s honestly stopped trying to pay attention to the TV. So he just laughs along and enjoys the opportunity to let go.

“It’s almost midnight,” Cas offers, picking up the remote and skimming through the channels until he finds that stupid live broadcast from New York with the pop singers and the crowds in Times Square. Dean doesn’t recognize the blonde singer in her sequins and sparkles, but he’s never paid much attention to that shit anyway so that’s not really a surprise. “I don’t remember the last time I spent New Years’ with anyone.” Cas’ voice is low and rough, the words spoken softly. Dean turns to look at Cas, swivelling his head slowly and he sees nothing to put meaning to the words betrayed on Cas’ face. He opts for casual humour. If Cas is trying to say something else, he’ll say it, Dean tells himself.

“You’ve spent the last, I dunno, five? Six? With me. I don’t even remember the last time you’ve spent New Year’s alone.” Dean sips his bourbon with a small note of smugness in his smile. Cas is quiet for a moment, and Dean starts to wonder if his light approach to the comment might have crossed the borders into asshole territory. Finally, Cas speaks.

“Yeah, but it’s not like you put out,” he quips, a smile quirking up his lip on one side. “I’m beginning to think you’re just not that in to me.” He laughs at his own joke and pours another drink for each of them.

“Well maybe if you spent a little less time babysitting my ass you’d have time to go find yourself someone who _does_ put out,” Dean replies, and Cas laughs again.

“What, like you’ve been any luckier?”

“Ok well no, I guess not. Nothing with any strings attached anyway.” Not in a long time. Not since Lisa.

Dean’s hit with a wave of unwelcome emotion at the realization of how long it’s been since he’s been with the same person twice. At his age, most people are settling down or at least looking to, but Dean’s just drifting from hook-up to hook-up and honestly? He kinda hates it. He can count on one hand the number of people in his life that he gives two shits for. It’s a sobering thought, so he drains the bourbon in his glass quickly, chasing the happy buzz that preceded the ugly moment.

Back when he was with Lisa, when things were good, the year before the ugly Christmas with her parents, she’d taken him to a New Years’ party at a girlfriend’s condo downtown. It’s the last time he’d done anything other than drink heavily on the last night of the year. They’d danced, even though Dean hates dancing, and drank champagne, and at midnight he’d kissed her, deeply and sweetly and passionately. When she broke away, her dark eyes sparkled and she’d told him she loved him. He hadn’t said it back, too startled and tipsy on bubbly to process it right away, but Lisa hadn’t been fazed. She’d just pointed out that she didn’t need to hear it back, then kissed him again before leading him back to the middle of the living room to sway slowly to a power ballad with her head resting on his shoulder. That’s what Dean missed. Not Lisa, not dancing, but the sharing of intimate moments. He breathes out a dramatically forlorn sigh just as Cas speaks again.

“The countdown’s starting,” Cas chirps excitedly. His eyes sparkle. He gets so worked up over little things, all the little things. He gets excited about the New Years countdown and birthdays and long weekends. Season premieres of his favourite shows and new books and perfectly frosted cupcakes. Cas has so much life in him, and Dean is suddenly full of such affection for his friend, he can’t wrap his head around where it might be coming from except for the sheer volume of alcohol coursing through his veins just now.

“6…5…” Cas is counting the seconds out loud, his voice echoing the multitude of voices carrying through the TV speakers. He’s intently focused on the TV even though it’s just a big weird silver ball sliding down a stupid pole and it doesn’t really mean anything. He’s just excited about the spectacle, Dean supposes. “4…3…” Cas flashes Dean a smile in between numbers, just a brief glimpse but it lights up his face and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “2…1…” The smile is gone as quickly as it appears and Cas is counting again, breathing out the final seconds of the year. Maybe this year will be better. Maybe Dean can leave all the things that have plagued his winter behind and get a fresh start. Maybe January will breathe new life in to him.

“Happy New Year!” Cas cries, throwing up his arms enthusiastically, and Dean has no intention of moving but he does anyway, and the bourbon has made his reaction time so sluggish that he’s several seconds into an awkward, messy kiss with his best friend before his brain catches up and it registers what he’s done. It takes another couple of seconds to register that Cas is kissing him back, and a bakers’ dozen more before he feels Cas’ warm hands gripping his sides, and that his own hands are cupping the sides of Cas’ face. He sinks into the delicious warmth of Cas’ lips and tongue, licks into his mouth and its entirely possible that Dean lets out a small, pleased sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and then his brain really catches up and a sense of panic sets in that’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his life. He pulls away abruptly, not shoving Cas away but extricating himself from the embrace with as much alacrity as his drunken limbs can muster, flailing with little retained dignity, his eyes wide and startled. He must look like a deer in the headlights, because Cas shows him endless concern, and the hurt in his eyes only registers for half a heartbeat before he collects himself and stores it away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Dean manages to choke out.

“It’s OK Dean. It…it doesn’t mean anything.” Cas’ voice is all empathy and concern and consideration.

“I’m drunk,” Dean says, an explanation or an excuse or a realization, he’s not sure which. He sways on his feet a little, and Cas looks like he’s going to leave the safety of the couch to try to steady him, but Dean holds up a hand and gets his legs under him. “I should go to bed,” he says. Before he embarrasses himself further. Although, he’s just drunkenly kissed his best friend, who just so happens to be a dude, so considering he’s less than five minutes in to the new year, that’s a pretty good bid for most embarrassing start to the year ever in Dean’s books. He’s not actually sure it _could_ get more embarrassing. Dean is vaguely aware of Cas calling after him as he shuffles his feet towards the spare bedroom, and he falls asleep with his jeans still on. He doesn’t even bother climbing under the blankets. His mortification will keep him warm.


	9. January 1st, 11:21am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi,” Dean says, eyes downcast. Cas has a mug of coffee in his hand and he offers it up silently. Dean can feel eyes on him, not judging but weighing and analysing and he wonders for a moment what Cas sees there. He thinks the shame must be radiating off him in waves, that he must look different in the daylight. Dean’s sure that last night crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. Cas says nothing on the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look another mini chapter.

Dean has been involved in a massive motor vehicle accident in his sleep. He’s sure of it. Or a dojo full of toddlers has used him for kicking practice. Something like that. He’s wrecked. It’s too bad this couldn’t be one of those days where he wakes up still drunk. That would hurt way less. But no, he’s sore everywhere, and his head feels like it’s full of bees, and his mouth tastes like something he’d rather not put in to words. The pale winter light is enough to leave him squinting, and he’s hard pressed to come up with a single thing that could make him feel even a little bit worse. Right up until the second that he remembers why he’s sleeping in his jeans, on top of the blankets.

He kissed Cas. The ball dropped, the countdown ended, and he rang in the New Year with his tongue down Cas’ throat.

Cas is probably way less panicked about this than Dean is, he reasons. Cas has made no secret that his interests are much less gender-exclusive than Dean’s always have been. It’s going to be awkward though. Dean’s certain of that. Cas is going to ask why he did it and Dean’s not going to have an answer. It’s not even like he _wanted_ to kiss Cas, not really. It was all nostalgia and bourbon and that little flash of affection he vaguely recalls feeling as Cas counted down to midnight with joy and excitement in his eyes. Dean remembers enough of the moments leading up to the kiss to know what his mindset was at the time, he just can’t figure out why any of that led to the thing that’s making regret and shame coil in his belly right now.

Outside the bedroom door, he can hear Cas up and moving around the apartment. His footfalls are impossibly light, soft carpet swallowing up most of the sound but Dean can hear Cas well enough to tell that he’s walking down the hallway. Dean cringes when Cas knocks hesitantly on the door, but he can’t hide in here forever.

“Are you awake?” Cas calls softly. Dean considers pretending to still be asleep, but he’s suddenly struck with the realization of how desperately thirsty he is, so he relents and opens the door.

“Hi,” Dean says, eyes downcast. Cas has a mug of coffee in his hand and he offers it up silently. Dean can feel eyes on him, not judging but weighing and analysing and he wonders for a moment what Cas sees there. He thinks the shame must be radiating off him in waves, that he must look different in the daylight. Dean’s sure that last night crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. Cas says nothing on the subject.

“You want breakfast?” he asks instead, and Dean follows him into the kitchen with a silent nod.

Cas doesn’t behave as if anything has happened, which is just as well because Dean would like very much not to talk about it. Dean would like to pretend it didn’t happen, or, if someone’s offering, he’ll take a complete mulligan and totally undo the entire catastrophe. Cas talks plenty, he just doesn’t talk about _that_. He talks about how excited he is for Sam and Jessica, how he wishes he took an extra day or two off from work after the holiday, how weird it’s going to be when there’s a new Star Wars movie in theatre. Dean barely responds. He barely tastes the waffles Cas serves him. He barely notices when Cas refills his coffee. He’s too wrapped up thinking about what an idiot he is.

 


	10. January 9th, 1:42 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks about getting out of bed. He could make himself a cup of something warm and curl up on the couch where at least the chill doesn’t seep quite so far in to into his bones and ride out the sleepless night in something approaching comfort. But that feels too much like giving up. If he does that, he’s let whatever’s hiding in the shadows win, given it the power to decide for him, and there’s no going back from that. If he can’t even bring himself to fall asleep in his own bedroom then what does he even have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which your author is kind of an asshole.

It’s not even that late at night, but Dean already knows he’s not going to sleep a wink. It’s the third night in a row he’s felt that awful crawling feeling on his skin the moment he turned out the lights, before he’s even settled in to bed and before he’s even shut his eyes. The last two have started just like this and he’s willing to bet that he knows what comes next. First, he’ll lay awake until 2:30 or 3, staring at the ceiling and trying to shut his brain down. Then, he’ll hear an innocuous noise, a thump or a scratch or something and he’ll get so worked up over the endless list of things that could have caused that noise that he’ll have to turn the lights on just to reassure himself that he’s safe here. He’s slipping and he knows it. This is not what functional adults do. He knows better. He just can’t seem to shake it.

Dean rolls on to his side so he can’t see the harsh glare of the clock on his nightstand. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe he’s so tired he’ll actually just pass out from exhaustion and it won’t matter that he can’t fall asleep. He thought about stopping at a pharmacy on his way home from work, maybe picking up an over-the-counter sleeping pill. It wouldn’t do long term but at least he could get a good night’s sleep. He’s not really sure why he decided against it but he’s sticking to it. Dean’s nothing if not stubborn.

Curled up in bed like this, awake and chasing sleep that he knows he won’t catch, Dean finds it nearly impossible to escape the thoughts his brain chooses to highlight for him. He’s a masterwork of denial and evasion but even he can’t avoid his own mind forever. He hasn’t seen Cas since New Years’ Day. They’ve sent a few text messages back and forth, but Dean feigned exhaustion on Friday and bowed out of their usual pizza and movie night. Cas hasn’t tried to bring the kiss up, of course he hasn’t, but Dean can’t stop feeling like he’s fucked up the only functional friendship he’s ever managed to make and it’s crawled inside his belly and made a home there, this sick sense of regret and shame. And now it’s the early hours of Friday again and he knows that Cas won’t let him get away with being ‘too tired’ tonight. He’ll badger him about it or Dean will just cave. Or Dean will steadfastly refuse and Cas will show up on his doorstep with beer and pizza and then where will Dean run to? He’s well and truly fucked. He’ll have to face it.

What exactly is _it,_ anyway? What happened? Dean hates analysing his own motivations too closely at the best of times and he hates chick-flick moments and he sure has hell hates being forced to talk about his feelings but he can’t pretend it’s not going to come up at some point. He’d be more than happy to pretend it never happened; let it slip into the past like a bad dream and strike a tacit understanding to never speak of it again. It would be easier than trying to identify what made Dean Winchester, mechanic, ladies’ man, and decidedly not interested in dudes, decide to kiss his best friend.

Yeah. No. Fuck that. Dean sighs and tugs the blankets up under his chin, trying to trap whatever warmth he can under the layers and layers he’s swaddled in. His toes are like icicles even though he’s been in bed for hours and the tip of his nose feels as cold as if he were outside in the wind and rain. He suppresses a shiver because there’s nothing manly about that, instead gripping the blankets tighter and tucking his knees up against his chest, making himself as small as possible.

Dean thinks about getting out of bed. He could make himself a cup of something warm and curl up on the couch where at least the chill doesn’t seep quite so far in to into his bones and ride out the sleepless night in something approaching comfort. But that feels too much like giving up. If he does that, he’s let whatever’s hiding in the shadows win, given it the power to decide for him, and there’s no going back from that. If he can’t even bring himself to fall asleep in his own bedroom then what does he even have?

Dean grimaces, shifting his weight on the bed and trying to find something approaching comfort. His shitty mattress doesn’t really help matters. He’s not even sure how old it is but it’s probably long past the age when he’d be expected to replace it. The bedsprings groan and creak and he freezes, remembering a cruel voice hushing him in the darkness and the paralyzing fear that followed that night so many weeks ago, but he’s met only with silence. Apparently his tormentor is taking a night off.

That takes the edge off his nerves somewhat. He still doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall asleep, but at least he doesn’t feel frantic and anxious and frightened. It’s enough that he gets comfortable, stretches his limbs out and starts to relax, and at that point he remembers idly how long it’s been since he’s shared a bed with anyone. The answer doesn’t make him happy. The timeframe extends into months, and the number is entirely too high for his liking. His dick apparently agrees, waking up and starting to show interest at the mere thought of sex. He’s feeling safe in his own bed for the first time in recent memory, and he’s got plenty of experience to draw on that tells him it’s so, so much easier to fall asleep with the leaden heaviness that settles into his limbs after an orgasm, even if it’s one he brings himself to in the cold and dark solitude of his room.

His course of action decided, Dean shimmies out of his sweats and his boxers, letting them form an indistinct lump under his mountain of blankets as he kicks his feet free. His legs spread easily as he palms his half-hard dick, working it to full attention with lazy strokes before wrapping his fingers around the shaft and squeezing just short of too hard. Dean’s always liked it a little rough, loved it when the girls he’s gone home with have gotten a little pushy, left furrows down his back with their fingernails, sucked purple marks into his neck and pulled at his hair. He’s never brought anyone back here, mind; this is not the kind of apartment you bring a girl back to. And he’s definitely never told any of them how much he liked it when they marked him up. But he knows.

Dean thinks about exactly that, now, as his own calloused fingers tug at his aching cock, feeling the pressure build in his core as he spins out the fantasy. The girl he imagines has dark hair and bright eyes, and every curve of her is perfect. He imagines those bright eyes locking with his own as she takes his cock in her mouth, imagines her long fingers gripping his thighs bruising fierce as she swallows him down, her tongue working slow and teasing strokes along the length of his cock. He’s close before he knows it, the desperation of having gone too long without this release making every nerve in his body thrum with excitement from the second he started. He groans low and breathy, and his voice echoes in the empty room as his hand works furiously between his legs, looming on the edge of the release he craves. And then he hears it.

The disembodied voice is so much sharper this time, as if the source of it is right up next to his ear, still whispered but clear as a bell. It hushes him and he freezes, stopping mid stroke and tensing from head to toe as his heart races for an entirely different reason than the looming orgasm that’s now receding out of his grasp. He’d curse under his breath if he wasn’t so wrapped up in startled terror. It’s possible he does, without realizing it, because he hasn’t moved an inch and he hears it again, that cold, faceless voice intruding into his thoughts.

“Shhhhhhhh,” it implores him, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the hair on the back of his neck stands stiff and his skin crawls as he feels the heavy weight of a hand settle on to his shoulder. If it were a human hand, attached to a human body, if he could say for certain it was a hand at all, he’d say the gesture was meant to be calming, soothing, reassuring. It feels like the hand you’d rest on someone’s shoulder when you tell them it’s all going to be ok. But it’s not soothing. It’s not calming in the slightest. It wraps around his shoulder and presses into his back where its pressed against the mattress, and if there was a person attached to that sensation that person would be directly above him. He won’t open his eyes for confirmation but he’s rationally certain there’s no person hovering above his bed. That rational certainty isn’t in any way reassuring. Dean grimaces, lets go his softening dick and breathes slow, steady, calm, tries to control the heartbeat that’s threatening to jump right out of his chest. The sensation of the hand on his shoulder is gone the second he notices it but the looming dread that it brings with it sticks around even after his breathing settles and his pace calms. When Dean is sure it’s safe to do so, he opens his eyes slowly, carefully and casts furtive glances about the room. He can’t find anything to attach his terror to, so he extricates himself from the bed as quickly as he dares and, tugging his underwear and sweatpants back on as he goes, takes his sorry self to the couch.

It’s warmer in the living room. It always is. The couch is even less comfortable than his old mattress. But he can’t sleep in there. Not now. Not anymore. Dean wraps himself up in a blanket and makes himself as small as possible on the couch. Maybe if he’s quiet he can fall asleep before the fear knows to find him here.


	11. January 9th, 7:00 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >>We still on for beer and pizza?
> 
> It’s a totally innocuous message, but Dean stares at it for an unreasonable amount of time. He can’t think of a single excuse not to show. Tired doesn’t cut it, because Cas knows he’s shown up after literally not sleeping a wink, and Cas will counter with the idea that Dean will sleep better if he gets out of that stupid apartment for a night anyway. Nothing else comes to mind, unless he wants to venture in to the territory of why he actually doesn’t want to go. That’s the last thing he wants to do though, start an actual conversation with Cas about the kiss, so he puts his phone away without answering. He’ll think on it for the afternoon and text Cas later. He’ll come up with something believable during the afternoon and then he can go home and hide. Dean just needs to distance himself until he can forget what Cas feels like in his arms, how Cas’ mouth tasted like bourbon. He’s afraid to admit that he hasn’t stopped thinking about it.

Dean wakes to the alarm on his phone and is pleasantly surprised to realize that he did, in fact, sleep. It wasn’t as many hours as he needed and his back is stiff from the couch but he’s nearly certain he’s got enough brain power to make it through the day. He resolves to mark that in the win column and starts the coffee maker up before climbing into a steaming hot shower. By the time he’s scrubbed and rinsed, he’s feeling almost like the old Dean again, the one who slept full nights and had nothing to fear, the one who lived in an apartment that didn’t torment him, the Dean who functioned like a real human being. It puts a spring in his step that lasts right up until the moment he draws back the shower curtain and his eyes fall on the mirror, obscured with fog and steam save for the same five block letters, evenly spaced and tauntingly clear, like the hand that scrawled them took care to make sure there could be no mistaking their meaning. _SHHHH_ , they proclaim, and he’s getting pretty tired of this shit, so he swipes across the message with his towel before treading out of the bathroom and down the hallway still dripping as he goes.

Dean pauses outside the door to his bedroom for a moment, but he has to go in there to get clean clothes and nothing creepy has ever happened to him in there in the daylight, so he shakes it off and stalks in. He dresses hastily, not even pausing to look at which tee-shirt he’s pulled on or whether the jeans he’s grabbed are clean enough to wear for another day before pulling a random assortment of clothes, pants and shirts and socks and boxers into a laundry basket and hauling it out of the room with him. He leaves it on the couch, promising himself he won’t have to go back in there until…until he can figure out what’s going on. He’ll sleep on the couch from now on. At least the insubordinate television is a calmer menace.

 

Despite the rough start to the morning, Dean arrives at work hopeful for a productive day. He’s pleased to see that the assignment board has him fairly busy; the more work he has to focus on, the easier it will be to keep his mind on the task at hand and away from all the things he’s avoiding thinking about. He drops his lunch in the break room and slips on coveralls, greeting Bobby with a silent nod of his head as they pass. Bobby pauses like he’s going to say something, but he shuts his mouth at the last second and walks away shaking his head. Dean pretends not to notice.

He spends the better part of the morning giving a well-maintained Oldsmobile the most detailed inspection possible. Somebody’s grandmother has kept this thing immaculately cared for, from the factory paint job that shows no sign of scratches or dents, to the burgundy plush interior that looks like it was just detailed yesterday. The engine is perfectly maintained, and in the glove box he finds a little notebook with a complete history of every oil change, every tire rotation, every single thing that has been done to this car since it rolled off the line in the late ‘80’s. He’s kind of impressed. There’s not much work to be done, but he tops up the fluids and changes the spark plugs because they’re getting kinda close to needing it, and hands the keys back to the stout, proud driver, a woman who looks a lot younger than the age her driver’s licence shows, and tells her how impressed he is with the state of her car. She smiles and winks at him before driving away, and the laugh he replies with is hearty and real. It’s been a good morning.

By the time the Oldsmobile rolls away, it’s eleven thirty and Dean decides to take lunch early rather than start another project and then just stop again in half an hour. He’s half way through his disappointing gas station packaged sandwich when he slides his phone out of the pocket of his coveralls and is confronted by a text notification.

It’s Friday. He shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a text from Cas, but it’s a painful reminder that he’s been avoiding his friend since New Years’ day.

_> >We still on for beer and pizza?_

It’s a totally innocuous message, but Dean stares at it for an unreasonable amount of time. He can’t think of a single excuse not to show. Tired doesn’t cut it, because Cas knows he’s shown up after literally not sleeping a wink, and Cas will counter with the idea that Dean will sleep better if he gets out of that stupid apartment for a night anyway. Nothing else comes to mind, unless he wants to venture in to the territory of why he _actually_ doesn’t want to go. That’s the last thing he wants to do though, start an actual conversation with Cas about the kiss, so he puts his phone away without answering. He’ll think on it for the afternoon and text Cas later. He’ll come up with something believable during the afternoon and then he can go home and hide. Dean just needs to distance himself until he can forget what Cas feels like in his arms, how Cas’ mouth tasted like bourbon. He’s afraid to admit that he hasn’t stopped thinking about it.

 

By the time he leaves the garage at 5, he’s come up with exactly nothing that passes as a convincing excuse to avoid Cas. There’s another message on his phone, this time offering to bring beer to Dean’s place if he’d rather stay in. Dean barely glances as it before shrugging out of his coveralls and throwing his old leatherjacket on over his tee-shirt and jeans, stepping in to the cold January air. The jacket was John’s, once. It’s the only thing Dean kept to remember his father by although he usually thinks of it more as a garment and less as a memento. The heater on the Impala is a marvellous luxury after his afternoon in the draughty garage, and he drives home a bit slower than usual, revelling in the warmth that seeps into his limbs. His living room doesn’t get as cold as the bedroom, but he still wants to take as much of the warmth with him as he can.

Inside, Dean drops his keys on the coffee table and goes in to the kitchen. He laments not stopping for takeout on his way home, because a quick survey of his fridge and cupboards shows a remarkable lack of planning in the grocery department. There’s a few sad, shrivelled apples in the crisper and some leftovers towards the back that he thinks might have been Thai food, but the last time he had Thai was over a month ago and there’s no way in hell that’s still edible. Dejected, he kicks off his boots and throws himself on the couch with a couple of take-out menus and tries to decide if he wants to order pizza or Chinese.

Dean’s just set the phone down after placing his order for classic pepperoni with extra cheese when it rings on the table. He knows it’s Cas by the ringtone, but he’d have guessed it would be him anyway. Dean feels bad about avoiding Cas, really he does, but he doesn’t have the first clue how to deal with this. And Dean’s method of dealing with the finer points of social and emotional interactions only has one step: Don’t. So he lets the phone ring until voicemail picks up, and he ignores the notification that flashes up a minute later that tells him he’s got a new voice message. He’s sure he knows what Cas has to say. Something full of compassion and understanding and support, none of which Dean deserves because he _knows_ he’s being a complete asshole. Something about being worried about Dean, which will be awful because the last thing Dean wants to do is give his friend cause to worry. The sick feeling that twists in Dean’s gut is just hunger, he tells himself, and he shrugs the thoughts away. What he really needs right now is a shitty action movie, a beer, and a pair of sweatpants. He reaches for the basket of clothes he brought out earlier in the day, certain that he remembers grabbing a faded and worn pair of sweats out of his drawer when he hastily packed for his vacation on the couch. The basket, unfortunately, is not on the couch where he remembers leaving it, and he really should have noticed this earlier because he’s sitting right where it should be. Dean frowns and stands. The basket is nowhere to be seen in the living room. It’s not in the kitchen, though why he would have left it there anyway is beyond reason. He didn’t leave it in the bathroom, though he is pleased to see that there’s no phantom message left on the mirror for him. He pointedly ignores the bags under the eyes of his reflected face.

Dean tells himself he’s not steeling himself for the task at hand when he stops outside the door to his bedroom. He tells himself he’s not afraid of his bedroom, that he has no reason to be, that this is all just completely insane. He keeps telling himself this for a very, very long time, apparently, because he still hasn’t managed to work past his issue and obtain the missing sweat pants when a knock at the door steals his attention.

It doesn’t seem like it’s been long enough for pizza, but his sense of time, of reality is so distorted lately that he doesn’t give it much thought before grabbing his wallet off the coffee table and throwing open the door.

It’s not the pizza guy.

Cas doesn’t even look contrite, standing in Dean’s doorway with a case of beer and, yup, Dean’s pizza.

“I ran in to the delivery guy on my way up,” he says, no preamble, and Dean finds himself stepping aside to let Cas in to the apartment even though the panicked part of his brain (which, in all fairness, is most of his brain at this particular juncture) is screaming at him to slam the door and hide in a corner and not make eye contact and deny, deny, deny.

Dean should send him away. That would be the best way to avoid this. He should send Cas home, let him take his beer and go, and hide away in the least terrifying corner of his apartment until he can bottle up enough of these emotions to pretend he’s a functional human being again. But he doesn’t. As much as he really wants to send Cas away, Dean cannot deny that his presence is a comfort, even clouded as that comfort is by the fear and the apprehension and the staggering sense of regret he feels

“You look like shit,” Cas says as he shrugs off his coat. He’s injected himself into Dean’s space and obviously has no designs on being ushered out the door. Dean sighs.

“Yeah, well…” Dean trails off and shrugs. He’s got nothing clever.

“Star Wars?” Cas suggests, and even though it’s only been like, a month since he last watched the original trilogy, Dean is totally on board with that idea.

They’re silent for the better part of the first movie. Cas kicks his shoes off and settles on to the couch (right where the basket should have been, right where Dean totally remembers leaving the basket) and they drink beer and eat pizza and it’s totally normal except it’s not. Dean can’t take his mind off what happened last time they relaxed on a couch drinking and watching TV. Dean can’t forget what Cas tastes like, the way it felt to slide his tongue along the seam of Cas’ lips and delve into the heat of his mouth. He can’t stop thinking about the tiny gasp Cas made when their mouths first met, or the way it morphed into a sigh and then a hungry groan, like Cas wanted it, like Dean wanted it. He can’t get over how natural it felt for the seven or eight seconds it took for his brain to catch up and tell him it wasn’t natural. Dean just can’t stop thinking about it.

Beer helps. Beer is a distraction, and it lets him slowly dull his senses until he’s barely thinking about the way Cas’ lips caress his beer bottle and the way his throat moves when he swallows. He’s almost focused on the movie. Almost.

Cas gets off the couch to load up the next movie on the laptop when A New Hope ends, and Dean’s proud of himself for still being conscious enough to think to take the opportunity to duck into the kitchen and grab them each a new beer. He opens the bottles and passes one to Cas, ignoring the shiver that runs up his arm when their fingers brush and sinks back into the battered cushions of his second- or third-hand couch with a sigh and a creaking of bones and couch springs alike.

The crawl starts, familiar and bright, and the fanfare sings through the apartment in a way that lifts Dean’s spirits. Maybe it’s the beer or maybe it’s the exhaustion setting in, but his mind starts to drift and he stops thinking about Cas and the kiss and the panic and the dread and starts to just enjoy the movie. He starts to enjoy his friend’s company again. It’s a welcome change from the anxious way he’s been spending the past week. He missed Cas, he realizes, missed hanging out and talking and texting. Missed beer and pizza when he bailed last Friday. Missed this one good thing in his life. He can’t afford to fuck it up.

“Hey,” Dean finds himself saying almost before he’s realized he’s decided to speak. His voice comes out strained and gruff. He clears his throat. “About New Years.” Cas cuts him off.

“It’s fine Dean. It doesn’t matter.” Cas’ smile is broad and warm. Dean can almost believe he means it. There’s a brief second where Dean almost lets himself speak again, but this is what he wanted, isn’t it? To pretend it never happened? To go on as if he’d never let the bourbon make decisions for him? So he gives a tiny nod, gestures vaguely with his beer, and turns back to the television. Star Wars will make everything better.

 

Dean dreams. He’s not slept deeply enough to dream in weeks. Tonight’s dreams are not a reprieve, though. He dreams of New Years, of the fateful kiss. He dreams of Cas’ lips sliding against his own, coaxing soft moans from deep in his throat, and his hands roam over Cas’ body freely. He dreams lusty dreams, dreams of shallow breath and rough touches and the grinding of hips and he wakes to the darkness of his living room with a hard-on the thin blanket that’s draped over him does nothing to disguise. He doesn’t even remember curling up on the couch, but he also doesn’t recall the end of Return of the Jedi so he must have fallen asleep sometime during the movie. Cas is slumped at the other end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, head thrown back, soft snores drifting from his open mouth. He hardly looks comfortable.

It doesn’t seem fair that Cas should be slouched awkwardly here while Dean takes up the rest of the couch, not when there’s a perfectly good bedroom down the hallway, but Dean can’t make himself retreat to the solitude of that room, not even for Cas’ sake. He can’t. So he nudges Cas’ shoulder slightly, just enough to make the other man slump on to his side, sprawling sleepily on the couch cushions. He stretches his limbs as his body falls. Dean thinks for a brief moment that Cas is reaching out for him, spreading his arms in a welcoming embrace. Once Cas settles, Dean drapes the blanket over him and tucks himself onto the other end of the couch as far from Cas as he can get. He’s not sure he trusts himself not to make things worse, not with the dream and how his mind keeps wandering back to New Year’s eve, but he’s stuck with a choice between a seated sleep on the couch or sleeping in his own bed. It’s still more comfortable than subjecting himself to the terror that lurks in his bedroom, he tells himself, as he lingers on the edge of sleep and listens to the soft sounds Cas makes as he drifts in his own dreams.


	12. January 16th, 5:21 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s apprehensive as he pulls back the shower curtain and reaches for his towel, but the mirror is an unbroken sheet of mist that bears no haunting message. He breathes a sigh of relief as he dries off, dresses with no hurry and heads to the kitchen. Being up so early has the pleasant side effect of affording Dean enough time to actually make breakfast for a change instead of stopping at a drive-thru. He might even make a sandwich for lunch instead of grabbing something at a grocery store or a deli on his way. Wild aspirations.

If Cas thought showing up on Friday night unannounced and bluntly dismissing Dean’s attempts to make amends for the awkwardness of New Years Eve was going to be enough to set things back they way he had been, he was sorely mistaken. Saturday morning brought with it awkwardness on Dean’s part and quiet acceptance on Cas’. He made as if to linger, even went to far as to suggest breakfast, but the memory of the offending dream and the resulting erection haunted Dean more than whatever it is that hides in the dark corners of his bedroom, and he’d rejected the offer out of hand. Cas didn’t give any outward impression of hurt as he left, but Dean could tell he was bothered. He felt bad about it, but not enough to do things differently.

Now, Monday morning, he lies on his couch and stares at the ceiling. It’s easier to sleep on the couch now, easier than returning to his room where the worst of the events have plagued him. He slept a little during the night and he’s grateful for that. Nothing terrifying happened. His television remained blessedly quiet, no disembodied voices begged silence, no vestiges of his childhood asserted their presence from hiding places in closets or cupboards or cabinets. The reprieve isn’t enough to grant him the sweet release of sleep though. He’d managed a few hours, but long before the sun’s rays break the day he’s conscious and restless and anxious. He lies there for long minutes, eyes unfocused on the stained stucco above him and thinks about nothing in particular until finally the restlessness gets the better of him and Dean decides that it’s time to get up. It’s not even six yet, he’s got plenty of time before he needs to leave for work, but there’s no point in staring blankly when he’s already conscious. He traipses off towards the bathroom, leaving yesterday’s jeans in a cold lump on the floor as he runs the water and starts a steamy shower that will hopefully chase away some of the stiffness he carries as a result of too little sleep on a too-short couch.

He’s apprehensive as he pulls back the shower curtain and reaches for his towel, but the mirror is an unbroken sheet of mist that bears no haunting message. He breathes a sigh of relief as he dries off, dresses with no hurry and heads to the kitchen. Being up so early has the pleasant side effect of affording Dean enough time to actually make breakfast for a change instead of stopping at a drive-thru. He might even make a sandwich for lunch instead of grabbing something at a grocery store or a deli on his way. Wild aspirations.

The list of things that Dean is capable of preparing for himself in the way of breakfast foods is impressively long by comparison to the rest of his repertoire, but to be fair, breakfast foods are the easiest. He remembers buying eggs and mushrooms. He’s going to have an omelette.

Dean starts a pot of coffee first off, measuring grinds and pouring water into the machine before flipping the switch. It’s not as nice as Cas’ coffee maker and he doesn’t buy the fancy beans like Cas does but it gets his morning going. It’s much more about the caffeine than the taste anyway. While it percolates, he pokes his head into the refrigerator to grab his ingredients, and immediately chokes on the foul stench that assaults his nostrils. It’s so rancid he can taste it. Dean is almost as perplexed as he is nauseated.

As soon as he catches his breath, Dean opens the fridge again and surveys the contents carefully. He just bought the eggs yesterday, and the mushrooms the day before, and there’s Chinese takeout in there that is definitely still totally edible, but when he takes the lid off the container it’s covered in a layer of green fuzz that should have taken at least a couple of weeks to cultivate. Dean knows. He’s seen it happen before, more than once, with various different varieties of takeout. But there it is, green and fuzzy and smelly as the day is long.

Dean checks the little knob at the back of the fridge. It’s turned to seven, which the label tells him is the optimum operating temperature for a refrigerator to keep food from doing exactly what his food has done. And the things in the fridge are cold to the touch so at least he’s not dealing with a dead appliance. He sighs and hauls the garbage can over to the fridge, throwing everything that was once edible into the bin with a shake of his head. Apparently he’s going out for breakfast anyway.

 

Dean stops at the grocery store on the way home, picks up a few basics. A couple bananas, still a little green so they can ripen on the counter. A loaf of bread. Cheese that doesn’t have any weird green veins in it. And a frozen pizza because that’s about the level of culinary artistry he feels capable of tonight. He drops his keys and wallet on the coffee table and preheats the oven. One beer is freed from the six-pack he brought home, the remaining five tucked into the fridge with a distrustful glance as the door shuts. The smell is gone but the memory of spoiled takeout is still fresh in Dean’s mind. When the oven is hot and the pizza secure within it, Dean takes his beer to the couch and as he sits down, he checks his phone almost more out of habit than an honest desire to see what messages he might have. Cas has already texted him today, pedestrian messages about the idiocy of his coworkers or this new coffee place that opened near his office, and Dean had been able to get away with telling himself he was too busy to reply during the workday. Now, with his ass firmly planted on his couch slash bed and his beer sitting untouched on the coffee table, Dean can’t escape the guilt that comes along with the knowledge that he’s still probably not going to reply even though his excuses have all dissolved into the aether.

He’s kinda surprised there isn’t a new message from Cas, truth be told. Bordering on relieved, sure, because if he really has to, he can probably pretend that he forgot about the older messages, but there’s no reason not to reply to one that got sent after he left the garage that doesn’t translate directly as ‘I’m an asshole,’ but surprised nonetheless. Cas is nothing if not persistent. Cas is definitely persistent.

The tv isn’t a very good distraction tonight. Dean can’t be bothered to watch the news. It’s too depressing. There’s the regular Friday night assortment of sitcoms on, but he’d sooner eat the science fair Chinese takeout he discarded this morning than subject himself to laugh tracks and stupid plotlines. Wheel of Fortune is on at least one channel, but Dean has always been of the opinion that Pat Sajak is not to be trusted, so that’s not an option either. But on the upside, that means Jeopardy is on soon, so he leaves it on that channel and mutes the TV while he waits for pizza. Its ready just before the show ends, and he sits down with three slices of grocery store pepperoni and sausage and a cold beer.

Dean loves Jeopardy. Always has. He’s clever enough on a wide enough range of subjects that he can answer a decent number of the questions, and he’s retained just enough useless trivia from watching previous episodes that he can hold his own against the librarians and physics professors and if he fudges the numbers a little, he can pretend he totally would have won Final Jeopardy.

 

Dean’s hypothetically owning the nerds behind the screen when his phone rings. Alex Trebek has just read off the daily double clue which he totally answered way faster than the dude who picked it.

“The only son of Nicholas II, Alexei was the last male heir born to this royal family while it ruled Russia.” The voice from the TV speaks calmly, and Dean can totally believe that this dude actually knows all the answers. He’s pretty smart for a game show host.

“The Romanovs! You should have wagered it all, you tool!’ Dean shouts at the TV, reaching for his phone as it vibrates away on the coffee table. It’s probably going to be Cas, he realizes as his hand touches it. He’s going to have to answer it or go up another level on the asshole scale.

It’s not Cas.

“Hey Sam!” Dean chirps cheerfully as he answers the phone. “How goes it?”

“Are you mad at Cas or something?” Sam barks over the line, completely skipping over the greeting and going right for the throat. Dean cringes.

“What is this, high school? I miss responding to a couple of texts and I gotta hear about it from my brother? He’s calling you to check up on me now?” He’s definitely in the asshole zone.

“It’s not like that. I called him to ask for a wine recommendation. We’re having dinner with Jess’ parents on Friday. And he asked how you were, which, considering you are walking distance and I’m on the other side of the country, kind of set off some red flags. What the hell happened? You and Cas have never fought. What gives?”

Dean does not want to have this conversation. But short of hanging up on his brother he can’t really think of a way out of it. So he lies.

“It’s fine Sam, really. I got a bit drunk on New Years and I think I made a bit of an ass of myself. I’m just giving him some space until he forgets what a dick I can be.” He sips his beer and hopes it’s enough to get him out of a heart to heart. He’s not that lucky.

“Bullshit.” Sam’s reply is almost immediate. “We both know that short of actually stabbing him in the actual heart, Cas would forgive you for pretty much anything. And since he didn’t mention any gaping chest wounds, I’m guessing you didn’t go quite that far.”

“It’s nothing,” Dean lies. The lies come easier the more he tells them. He’s not sure he’ll be able to say it frequently enough that he starts believing it, though. He’ll keep trying.

“I don’t understand why you insist on pushing everyone away, Dean.” Sam’s voice is exhausted, like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times over and he’s tired of repeating himself. “You suck at relationships. You suck at friendships. You burn bridges like it’s nothing and then you beat yourself up for it. I don’t want to see you end up with no one.”

“Jesus Sam, where is all this coming from? I told you, I got drunk. I was a jerk. No bridges were burnt. It’ll be fine.”

“Uh huh,” Sam replies, dripping with sarcasm. “Sure Dean. If you’re going to be an idiot about this I can’t stop you. But think about this: If you push Cas away, who else do you have? You don’t let people be your friends, no one but him and me. I gotta think his friendship means something to you. Stop being a whiney bitch and fix it.”

Sam’s words echo in Dean’s head long after he hangs up the phone. He’s missed the end of Jeopardy so there’s nothing on the screen to distract him and the good mood he’d cultivated with beer and escapism has abandoned him to bleak thoughts.

The worst part of it is how right Sam is. Dean _doesn’t_ have anyone else. He doesn’t speak to anyone else from school anymore, not in the decade since graduation. Not that he was close with any of them anyway. And he’s friendly with the guys from the garage, might even go for a beer after work on occasion if there’s an invite and the mood strikes him. And he’s close enough with Bobby to consider him a surrogate father but that’s not a friendship. It is, but it isn’t. Not like Cas.

He finishes the six pack and only notices when he goes to the fridge for another beer, only to find there aren’t any. Dean’s never been that great at math but he’s sure he’s only had three. He sneers at the empty fridge like it’s the appliance’s fault he drank all the beer. There’s nothing in there except the meagre groceries he brought home this evening. Even the bottle of ketchup and the soy sauce that lingered in the back of the fridge had been thrown out. Everything had spoiled. Dean shakes his head.

The only thing to do is go out and get more beer. If he did drink all six, which he’s sure he didn’t but better safe than sorry, then he sure as fuck can’t drive. So he storms over to the coffee table to grab his wallet and his keys, shrugging on his inherited leather jacket as he goes. The snow may be melting but it’s still January, after all.

Dean is entirely certain he left his keys _right fucking here._ He walked in the door, dropped them and his wallet on his coffee table and went to the kitchen with his beer and his pizza and his groceries. That’s exactly what happened. He must have moved them when he was on the phone with Sam. He always gets fidgety when he’s on the phone, absentmindedly toying with whatever’s in arms reach.

Thirty minutes later, Dean is still without his wallet or his keys. He completes aimless circuits of the apartment and each time he comes up empty. He’s checked every single place he can imagine having put his keys and several places he’d never knowingly leave them. He’s ascertained that he did not, in fact, put them in the freezer in a moment of confusion. They’re not in the bathroom, and he didn’t put them in the microwave somehow when he warmed up the last of the pizza. He’s checked his coat pockets so many times he’s lost count, pulled out all the cushions on the couch and even taken a cursory glance around the bedroom he refuses to sleep in, though he knows for a fact he hasn’t been in there this evening so it was futile to even bother. But still he’s come up empty handed.

This is getting downright ridiculous, Dean decides, and he’s gone past annoyed and into full on furious with himself for losing his keys and his wallet. He should have listened when Cas told him to put up a hook by the door, got in to the habit of hanging his keys up as soon as he got home. He should have kept his stupid tongue in his own damn mouth. If he hadn’t fucked things up on New Years, he could be drinking beer on Cas’ couch right now, watching god only knows what terrible movie, comfortable and safe and not scouring his fucking apartment for keys that were supposed to be right fucking there—

Which is exactly where they are. Dean stares at the coffee table from his vantage point on the couch. He doesn’t even remember sitting back down, but he is, and the keys and wallet are sitting exactly where he remembers putting them when he got home. He stares at them, eyes unblinking, willing them to vanish again and prove that he didn’t imagine their absence in the first place. He can’t possibly have spent a frantic half hour looking for something that’s been right in front of him this whole time. He’s tired, sure, but he’s not stupid. Probably not, anyway.

He snatches the items off the table as if he’s afraid they’re a limited time offer. The keys are cold and hard, just like he expects the metal to be, and he tucks them into the pocket of his leather jacket without opening his hand to look at them again. The leather on his wallet is worn and stained like he remembers it, and his drivers licence, his bank card, Cas’ business card, everything he knows is supposed to be in there is exactly as he left it. It feels solid and real in his hand. He’s losing his mind.

Dean sees his creepy neighbour in the lobby on his way outside, the one with the arthritic fingers and the rheumy eyes and the unflinching gaze. He tries to pretend he doesn’t see her.

“Are you still here?” She grumbles. “Thought you would’ve moved out long ago. It ain’t right, nice boy like you living in a place like this. Ain’t right.” She totters off without another word, making her way into the elevator with the flickering overhead light without a backwards glance.

“Well that was weird,” Dean mutters under his breath as he makes his way outside into the cold. He doesn’t even bother to zip up his jacket, instead letting the cold cut through him and clear his head. The walk to the liquor store isn’t that far and the shock to his system will do him good. Still, he walks quickly, eager to get back inside with his beer and resume his entirely pointless evening. He’s feeling almost cheerful by the time he turns the key in his apartment door a little later. There’s another six-pack in his hand and he’s going to drink all of it and maybe, just maybe, sleep for a full eight hours in the relative comfort of his couch-turned-bed. He’s got this.

Dean strides right to the kitchen to put five of the beers in the fridge. His hand is still resting on the cans where he set them on the shelf when his eyes fall on what was a block of orange cheddar not two hours ago. It’s now a misshapen green and grey lump, the heat-sealed packaging swollen and puffy with the gasses given off by decay. The bread beside it has fared no better. He pulls the beer back with him as he closes the door and turns slowly to the counter. The bananas, previously so fresh they were too green to eat for at least a couple of days have turned black and shrivelled. Dean can smell the sickly-sweet aroma of their deterioration across the kitchen.

He can’t breathe. He’s suffocating in this place, drowning on dry land. His hands, the hands that still clutch the cans of beer are trembling, betraying emotion he doesn’t even know how to categorize except that it’s paralyzing and intense. He needs to get away from the source of it. Dean needs to get out of here, he realizes. He needs to be out of this apartment. Right now.

He’s got his phone out of his pocket and his fingers are dialing Cas’ number before his brain catches up and realizes he means to do so. It rings only once before Cas picks up, like he’s been anticipating this exact phone call and has kept the phone close at hand for this very reason.

“Dean?” Even over the crackly connection with his voice thin and strained and tinny, Dean gets the impression that Cas knows the look on his face, the one that makes him through worried glances over his shoulder and leaves him hesitating to blink in fear of what might be there when he opens his eyes again.

“I um…is the offer of your spare room still on the table?” Dean should say a lot more. He should apologize for being such a dick. He should explain away New Years’. He should grovel and sigh and offer platitudes but all he can manage at the moment is those words. His breath catches in his throat as soon as the words are out, whether to choke back a sob or to stop him from saying something else, he can’t say. The response comes almost immediately.

“Of course Dean. Mi casa es su casa,” Cas says with a casual air that says they’re discussing the most normal and natural thing in the world. It’s a lie and they both know it, but Dean is grateful for the shield. If he has to explain himself, now, over the phone, while he stands in the address of his torment, he will surely implode.

“Thanks. I’ll be right over.” Dean’s relief is palpable though the tension still clings to him like a second skin. “I really appreciate it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this story and going "Oh sweet merciful Lucifer this slow burn is WAY too slow I am going to DIE, actually DIE in the time it's going to take for them to just get naked already," or you're getting scared by all the scariness and cursing my name as you huddle in the dark and pray for dawn to come swiftly, then I present for your consideration  
> [Lay Hands on Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3542339)a 2.5k PWP i threw together as a reward for your patience/apology for all the sleep you have lost. It's technically part of a series but you don't need to read the whole series in order to get it, so feel free to dive right in and read it if you just don't have time for the whole thing.  
> Also!  
> My lovely best friend [Petrichor_Amber](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor_Amber) and I wrote a thing. [An Unanticipated Escalation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3538706) is the continuation of a really dirty thing we wrote a while back, and for this one I DO encourage you to read part one first, but I'm also not the boss of you and I can't tell you what to do. And if you still hate me after both of these then feel free to come yell at me through whatever platform works best for you. AO3 comments [Tumblr.](http://shennanigoats.tumblr.com) Carrier Pigeons. Psychic Messages. It's all good.


	13. January 16th, 8:47pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His legs carry him swiftly. Dean doesn’t even recall if he turned off the lights behind him, if he locked the door. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything worth stealing. He leaves the building quickly hoping to avoid another encounter with the weird lady downstairs and he’s out the door and several blocks down the street before he realises what a stupid plan this is. It’s not even a plan, it’s a panic. He’s running away from his problems yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Goodness. It's really starting to get moving now, isn't it?
> 
> Don't worry. You'll still have plenty of reasons to hate me before this is all over
> 
> This chapter is JUST long enough that I considered leaving it until Monday, but then I thought, nah.

His legs carry him swiftly. Dean doesn’t even recall if he turned off the lights behind him, if he locked the door. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything worth stealing. He leaves the building quickly hoping to avoid another encounter with the weird lady downstairs and he’s out the door and several blocks down the street before he realises what a stupid plan this is. It’s not even a plan, it’s a panic. He’s running away from his problems yet again.

Even without the distraction of his worries, the walk to Cas’ apartment isn’t a long one. The cold air barely has time to put a sting into each breath before he’s standing outside the familiar building with his resolve crumbling

“Shit.” Dean bites off the curse under his breath. It was inevitable he’d end up here, he supposes. Where the hell else was he going to go? Still, he’s hesitant.

Dean paces on the sidewalk. His hands are shaking again, partially from the cold (he really should have brought gloves) but mostly he just feels so out of control. Life used to be easy. Life used to be simple. Life used to make sense.

Finally, resigned to his course of action, Dean approaches the buzzer panel. His finger hovers over the button besides Cas’ name for a long moment. Maybe he’s not so resigned at all. Before he can commit, press the button or turn tail and run, the door opens and a blonde woman Dean kinda recognizes as one of Cas’ neighbors steps out.

“I know you. You’re Castiel’s friend, right?” She smiles as she speaks. It warms her face and lights up her eyes. She looks like a woman who is used to smiling. Dean just nods, his mouth suddenly dry. “Go on,” she says. He realizes she’s holding the door open for him. Dean offers a weak smile in thanks, nods his head stiffly as he steps through the doorway.

The elevator ride up to Cas’ floor is longer than he remembers, but perhaps that’s because he’s never worried about what he’d find when he got upstairs. He’s always known Cas’ place as a comfort; somewhere he can go and be himself with no fears. Somewhere there is friendship. Somewhere there is safety. Now he runs to it like a refuge, not because he wants to but because he feels like he’s without options. It’s a terrifying thought.

The hallway is silent when the doors slide open and his footfalls are heavy even on the carpeted floor. Dean tries to keep his pace measured and even but he’s hard-pressed not to break into a run, either toward Cas’ door or away from it, he’s not yet sure which.

Dean’s surprised to find he doesn’t even hesitate when he reaches the door. His hand rises of its own accord and knocks three times on the thick wood, solid blows that must echo through the apartment. He draws a deep breath in anticipation, but he barely has time to let it out before Cas opens the door. There’s a slight hint of confusion on his face, lips parted as if to speak, but it melts into worry the second his eyes fall on Dean, and then he’s being ushered into the apartment, pushed on to the couch by concerned hands. He doesn’t have to make an excuse for being here, apparently. Cas can see it written all over his face.

“Dean,” he says carefully, like he’s going to break the man if he mishandles the name. Dean must look truly haggard if Cas is pulling out the kid gloves like this.

“Hi Cas,” Dean replies, stupidly. His brain doesn’t know what to do. “I…uh…” His voice catches in his throat and he lets out a shaky breath but before he can try to take it back Cas is pulling him into an embrace Dean didn’t realize he needed.

“To what do I owe this dubious honour?” the words are light and airy. Cas must see the turmoil on Dean’s face; there’s no way he misses it but he doesn’t cut to the bone with questions.

“Well,” Dean hears himself say. “It suddenly occurred to me that it is um, you know, Friday. And usually we hang out on Fridays. So I thought I’d come over and we’d do the movie thing…and then I’d just stay here for a while. Just for a few days. If that’s still cool?” It is possibly the least suave Dean has ever managed to be in his history of not being suave. He doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

“I see. And this sudden desire to stop ignoring me doesn’t perhaps stem from whatever it is you’re pointedly not talking about that is somehow preventing you from sleeping like a normal person and making you look like death warmed over, does it? I suppose that would be entirely too convenient?”

Dean’s hands freeze on the lapels of his jacket. Evading the conversation he can do, but outright lying to Cas suddenly seems like too much denial, even for Dean. He sighs heavily, shrugging out of his coat, and as he sinks heavily onto the couch, the story begins to spill out. He tells Cas everything. Well, almost everything. He leaves out a few key details about a particularly terrifying intrusion on his attempt at self pleasure, but the rest of the ordeal falls from his mouth in a surprisingly smooth string of words. He tells Cas about the first whispered admonitions in the dark as the other man fetches ice and glasses and pours them both a healthy measure of whiskey, which Dean takes appreciatively but doesn’t sip. He talks about the message on his mirror with the hushed tones of a child speaking about the monster under his bed. He relates the tale of the TV come to life to torment him and even as he speaks he’s incredulous at the words. Dean wouldn’t believe them himself if he didn’t experience it. But Cas just nods at the appropriate moment and reaches a hand out to rest on Dean’s forearm as he speaks, his head cocked to the side with compassion and concern on his face. He doesn’t speak though, he just lets Dean talk. The story of the radio is the hardest to tell, which Dean would not have anticipated if he’d thought about it in advance. There’s something in the details, the way he sat up all night with the photographs, the memory of that day at the creek, all of it, that just tugs at something in Dean’s chest. He pushes it away and hones his focus on the story though, because now that he’s speaking it’s harder to stop than it was to start in the first place. When he gets to the end, the cheese and the bananas he lets his voice trail off and looks at Cas with expectation in his eyes. _You’re crazy,_ Cas will say. _You’ve finally gone nuts._ And he’d be right to do so. His patience with Dean has always seemed infinite, but this has got to be the thing that finally breaks it.

Cas doesn’t though. He lifts his own glass and takes a sip, reminding Dean that he’s cradling a drink in his hands. Dean downs half his drink in one mouthful and winces at the burn. It’s welcome though. It makes him feel more alive than he has in days.

“That’s…that’s a lot for one person to handle,” is all Cas says on the subject though. “You should definitely stay here for a few days. You’ll rest better. The spare room is yours.” He changes the subject without further conversation, for which Dean is grateful. As much as it’s liberating to share his ordeal it’s been exhausting to divest himself of the burden and he doesn’t much feel like talking about it any further tonight. Cas seems to sense that. He flips on the TV and starts up Fight Club, and for the rest of the evening, Dean tries to forget why he’s there instead of on his own couch.


	14. January 17th, 9:05 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Talk about what?” Dean replies slowly, carefully. Inside he’s a roiling sea of panic, hot waves washing over him as the many possible disastrous outcomes of this conversation flash before his eyes.
> 
> “This,” Cas makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, one that encompasses all of Dean. “Ignoring my calls and texts for like a week, showing up on my doorstep half-drunk and three-quarters mad, the things you told me last night about your apartment, and while we’re at it, we should probably talk about New Years’.” As the words spill out, there’s increasingly more heat to Cas’ voice, like he’s only just remembering as he says these things how much they incense him. “You are one hundred percent not OK but you’re sitting here at my table pretending like everything’s peachy just because you had one good night’s sleep. You’re not fooling me. And I’m pretty sure you’re not fooling yourself either. So spill. Start talking.”

Dean wakes up in Cas’ spare bed feeling for all the life of him like a raw nerve, stripped bare of every trick he used to keep himself invisible and splayed out for all the world to see. He told Cas everything; the mirrors and the radio and the hand on his shoulder, the TV, the sleepless nights, the terror, the rotting food. Every detail, every little thing that makes his skin crawl and his hackles rise. Cas listened without judgement or comment, just let Dean pour out his ordeal with gentle concern in his eyes, and then when the movie was over, ushered Dean off to bed.

“You need a good night’s sleep,” he murmured, pressing a clean tee-shirt and sweat pants into Dean’s hands as he guided him through the small bedroom’s open door. Dean is grateful for that. After spewing forth all the things he’s experienced or at least thinks he’s experienced, he had no energy left for a heart to heart on his mental state. Now though, in the light of day, he regrets it almost as much as he regrets his actions on New Years’ Eve. He’s always wondered when he’s going to do something stupid enough to make Cas stop putting up with his bullshit. The least secure parts of his brain think that this might be that thing.

He reaches for his phone, pausing half way through the motion when he realizes he didn’t bring a charger with him. The phone sits silent and lifeless on the nightstand. Swinging his legs off the bed, he wiggles his toes against the soft carpet for a moment before standing and making his way to the kitchen.

As expected, Cas is already awake, a cup of coffee beside his elbow as he stares distractedly at the screen of his laptop. He glances up when Dean enters the room. He appears startled for a moment like he didn’t expect Dean to wake up on his own but he replaces it with a warm smile and pushes away from the table to fetch a second mug. Dean sips the coffee gratefully. He feels calm and rested after nearly eight uninterrupted hours of sleep in a room that isn’t trying to terrorize him but it’s edged with apprehension. In the back of his mind he knows that he should start a conversation so that Cas doesn’t have to but he can’t make himself form the words. He breathes in the aroma of the coffee, drinking with relish and letting it suffuse him with caffeine and warmth as he sits across the table from Cas, unspeaking and unmoving.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stay here for a few days.” Cas breaks the silence first. He speaks slowly, cautiously, in the same way one might take deliberate, measured steps when approaching an injured animal. Dean could laugh at the comparison if it wasn’t so accurate. “You’re not OK. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. What you’re going through, its…I don’t know what it is. But I can’t let you be home alone right now. Not when I see what it’s doing to you. You’re a wreck. I’m worried.”

Dean sighs, relieved. He can hide out here until he can figure out how to live with his burden. Maybe he can make peace with his ghost. Maybe they can coexist. Right. That’ll work. He nods his head in acceptance.

“I’ll need to go back at some point. I didn’t bring any clothes. I didn’t even bring my phone charger.” Dean speaks carefully. He doesn’t trust his mouth right now, not after all the details it blurted out last night. Cas raises an eyebrow slyly and pushes something across the table at him.

“I took your keys out of your jacket while you were sleeping. Your car’s in visitor’s parking downstairs. Your duffel is on the couch. You don’t have to go anywhere.” Dean picks up the cord he’s just been handed and smiles at Cas. He thinks of everything.

“Now,” Cas continues, his tone lighter and more jovial. “You need a shower. I’m guessing you haven’t’ even shaved this year. If you’re thinking of growing a beard, I mean sure, go for it, but you look like a homeless person. At least trim it.” Dean glares at him in mock offence, but when he runs a hand over his jaw to fact-check the statement he has to admit that the stubble he feels is at least eight days’ worth. It’s a surprise; Dean didn’t even realize he’d stopped shaving. It was part of his routine, engrained in his mind after years of living under John’s roof. He demanded military precision in all things from his boys—morning ablutions, organization of personal belongings, physical fitness. It was oppressive discipline that only faded once his drinking took over and he stopped having the presence of mind to take notice but the habits had already taken hold. Dean’s pretty sure he’s never even gone two days without shaving before, not since his whiskers first started to poke through in the early years of high school. Never eight. He’d certainly never actually forgotten to shave before.

“Go on,” Cas asserts his instructions, pushing his own chair away from the table. “You go shower, I’ll make breakfast.” Dean slams back the rest of his coffee and complies. Now that he’s aware of the ragged stubble on his face, it needs to go, and if he recalls correctly the water pressure at Cas’ place is a thousand times better than what he’s used to. He grabs his duffle bag on the way, pawing through it for clean clothes and toiletries. He’s not even a little bit surprised that Cas thought to grab his toothbrush and razor and deodorant. It’s not a shock that Cas brought the six tee-shirts Dean would call his favourites, or the hoodie he prefers over all the others he owns, or the jeans that fit the best.

The shower is as powerful as he remembers it being. Strong jets of perfectly heated water wash the exhaustion from his skin and leave Dean feeling like a new man, or at least a fresher version of himself. When he towels off, his skin is pink from the heat, blotchy and brighter in some places than others. He flinches when his eyes fall on the mirror but it’s only glass and steam, nothing insidious lives there. No words of warning wait for him. He wipes the mist away with his towel and pulls on clean shorts while the fan defogs the room enough that he can see. The face that stares back at him in the clear glass is nearly unrecognizable. It’s Dean, but it’s not. His eyes are sunken and haggard, dark circles making him look ten years older than his true age. His cheeks are gaunt beneath the unkempt stubble he hadn’t realize he’d let grow on his chin. Cas was right. He looks like shit.

With a sigh, he sets about shaving. The ritual of it is soothing. It reveals the real Dean beneath the beard, the one with a strong jaw and clear eyes, the one who stands tall and proud. The one who works with his hands and has a way with machines and who laughs full and throaty and means it. He misses that Dean. It’s good to have him back.

Cas smiles when he appears in the kitchen again, dressed in his favourite jeans and a Metallica tee-shirt. The room smells like bacon and there’s more coffee in his mug, a plate of eggs and bacon and hashbrowns piled high beside it. Cas gestures to the chair with the spatula then uses it to push the last of the bacon out of the skillet onto his own plate.

“You trying to fatten me up?” Dean jibes before diving into his breakfast. He could live the rest of his life on Cas’ cooking and never once feel a reason to complain.

“Usually I’d say no, but I assume you looked in the mirror at some point while you were shaving. You don’t exactly look like you’ve been eating. Or sleeping. Or bathing. Or doing much of anything in the way of taking care of yourself. So yes, eat everything on your plate.” Cas says it all with a stern look on his face, but the tone is soft and caring. Dean salutes with his fork. These are instructions he can follow.

Half way through breakfast when Dean thinks he’s going to skate through the meal without having to answer any follow-up questions, Cas speaks again.

“So are we going to talk about this?” Dean’s eyes snap forward at the sound of his friend’s voice. He chews slowly, using the mouthful of food as an excuse to buy time, but it’s still over too soon.

“Talk about what?” Dean replies slowly, carefully. Inside he’s a roiling sea of panic, hot waves washing over him as the many possible disastrous outcomes of this conversation flash before his eyes.

“This,” Cas makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, one that encompasses all of Dean. “Ignoring my calls and texts for like a week, showing up on my doorstep half-drunk and three-quarters mad, the things you told me last night about your apartment, and while we’re at it, we should probably talk about New Years’.” As the words spill out, there’s increasingly more heat to Cas’ voice, like he’s only just remembering as he says these things how much they incense him. “You are one hundred percent not OK but you’re sitting here at my table pretending like everything’s peachy just because you had one good night’s sleep. You’re not fooling me. And I’m pretty sure you’re not fooling yourself either. So spill. Start talking.”

Dean stares across the table, stunned. Cas is usually this calm, collected guy, so peaceful and passive. He takes everything that comes at him with implacable stoicism, and deals with problems with a level of wisdom and Zen that Dean has often compared to Yoda, though never where Cas could hear. He’s never thought Cas would particularly like the comparison.

“I…fuck. Where do I even start?” Dean drops his fork to clatter on the plate. His appetite is suddenly gone even though there’s still bacon in front of him. It’s a crying shame. “Whatever this thing in my apartment is, it’s fucking with me. It’s getting so inside my head, Cas. I don’t even know what’s real any more. I mean, the thing with the radio? I haven’t thought about that in years. I didn’t even remember I still had it. It’s fucking terrifying. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month except for the nights I’ve slept here. And I don’t even understand how food could possibly go bad that fast. You and Sam are right, I need to get out of that place. I need to find a new apartment.”

Cas regards him across the table, his coffee cup hovering in mid-air like he can’t decide if he’s going to drink from it or pitch it at Dean. He draws a deep breath and exhales long and slow before speaking.

“Dean, I wasn’t going to mention this. I really wasn’t. But when I went back to get your things…None of the food in your kitchen was spoiled. Everything was perfectly fine. I don’t think there’s anything _happening_ to you.” Dean recoils like he’s been slapped, but Cas just barrels through, keeps talking at him. “I think you’re what’s happening. You are so stressed out that your brain is playing tricks on you and you’re letting it. You’ve barely been sleeping; that plays havoc with your mind.”

“That’s…no.” Dean shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “That’s not possible. I saw it. I _smelled_ it. It was real.” Cas shrugs.

“I don’t know what else to tell you. I can’t speak to the other things, but the food, that didn’t happen. Now what has you so stressed out that your brain would be imagining that?”

Dean scowls across the table and reaches for his coffee. It’s still half full, so he takes several deep gulps of the now-tepid liquid before speaking again. Cas doesn’t break his eyes away the entire time.

“I got nothing. The only thing I’m stressed about _is_ this shit. So I don’t get it.”

“Uh huh,” Cas replies with a tone that says he doesn’t believe a single word of it. “Ok new topic. You wanna tell me why you’ve been acting like such a douchebag the past few weeks?” If Dean harboured any notions that he’d been let off the hook on that subject in favour of rehashing the apartment issue, they lie dashed on the rocks now.

“Um…I’m embarrassed that I got drunk and made an ass of myself? I was kinda hoping you’d just forget about it, honestly.” Dean’s coffee cup is empty now. He can’t hide behind it any longer. Cas’ mug hits the table with excessive force, sloshing coffee over the edge and soaking his napkin.

“Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously, fine, but don’t waste my time. You can stay here until you’re rested enough to think straight, but I can’t help you sort your shit out if you’re not gonna talk to me. I can’t fix things for you and I’m not going to sit here and listen to you avoid things like they’re just going to fix themselves. They’re not. Sort yourself out, Dean.” He pushes away from the table abruptly, throwing his mug in the dishwasher with more aggression than is entirely necessary and grabbing his coat out of the closet. “I’m going to the grocery store,” he says, and the door is closed behind him before Dean can reply.

 


	15. January 17th, 3:17pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has ample time alone with his thoughts while Cas is at the grocery store. He’s gone for hours, much longer than a simple grocery shopping trip should usually take, so either he’s got an extensive list or he’s avoiding coming home. Dean picks up his cellphone a double-handful of times and starts to type a text message but no matter how many times he tries, how long he stares at the screen, the words don’t form. Any concept of what he might have needed to say to fix this is fleeting and ephemeral, it won’t take shape in letters in the screen, so he sets it down and paces the apartment, only to pick the phone up again half an hour later and repeat the process. The phone is in hand, another futile effort well under way with the cursor flashing tauntingly on the blank screen when Cas finally returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta be honest, now that I've got my final round of edits done on this fic, it's taking all my strength to not just post the whole thing right now. But if I'm going to continue being honest, I get a really twisted kind of joy from the suspense I'm imposing on you all so I'm trying really hard to keep to the schedule I set out at the beginning. On the home stretch now kids!!

Dean has ample time alone with his thoughts while Cas is at the grocery store. He’s gone for hours, much longer than a simple grocery shopping trip should usually take, so either he’s got an extensive list or he’s avoiding coming home. Dean picks up his cellphone a double-handful of times and starts to type a text message but no matter how many times he tries, how long he stares at the screen, the words don’t form. Any concept of what he might have needed to say to fix this is fleeting and ephemeral, it won’t take shape in letters in the screen, so he sets it down and paces the apartment, only to pick the phone up again half an hour later and repeat the process. The phone is in hand, another futile effort well under way with the cursor flashing tauntingly on the blank screen when Cas finally returns.

“Do you need a hand with groceries?” Dean asks. Cas nods, face unreadable, and no words are exchanged as they take the elevator down to the parking garage and bring up the rest of the stuff from the trunk of Cas’ ancient Buick. When they’re back in the apartment, Cas busies himself unpacking things into cupboards, while Dean makes himself useful and puts away everything that needs to be refrigerated. It’s stiff and tense, and Dean opens his mouth to say something a half dozen times but the words always die on his tongue. Finally, there’s nothing left to put away, which means there’s nothing left to distract from the elephant in the room and Dean takes the lead for a change, before Cas can decide that his inaction is reason enough to send him home to sleep with his nightmares.

“Cas, I’m sorry.” The words come out so soft he barely hears them himself, but when he looks up from his feet Cas is staring back at him, eyes narrow as he focuses intently and waits for Dean to continue. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t know what I’m doing lately. I have no idea. It’s so fucked up. I honestly don’t know. You’re right, I’m barely sleeping, and I didn’t even realize that I’d stopped shaving so that should tell you something about my mental state. I’m not trying to keep things from you, I just honestly don’t know. But I do want your help, and I’m so grateful that you’re putting up with even a little bit of my shit while I sort this out. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Dean shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click; once he starts talking the words just come tumbling out and the only way to cease the babbling is to physically stopper it.

“I over-reacted,” Cas replies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You’re really on edge right now, that wasn’t fair of me. But thank you. I appreciate that. I want to help you sort this out, and I’ll listen to whatever is on your mind. You need to relax, and clear your head. Then when you get home, you can figure out what’s making your mind play tricks on you and deal with it.” And then Cas hugs him. It’s so different from the way Cas held him last night and not just because Dean’s not shaking with fear. The hug is stiff and formal. Even as Cas holds him close for the few seconds the hug lasts, he seems distant, walled off, in a way that Dean has never seen him before. It’s unsettling, this distance, but the hug is over before Dean can comment on it and then Cas is in the kitchen, talking about dinner and movies and beer and if there was a moment where he was invited to say something on the subject, it’s over now.

 

That night, Cas makes spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. Dean sits in the kitchen and keeps him company as he cooks, and they drink beer and watch The Avengers while they eat. It’s comfortable, like things used to be, and Dean feels his tension melting away minute by minute until it’s almost like the past two months have been erased and he can’t remember what it feels like to be terrified.

At one point, Dean gets up to fetch another round of beer. He leaves the caps in the kitchen; it’s habit now to open the bottles first just like Cas does. When he sits down again, he sits closer to Cas than he was when he stood up, but Cas doesn’t say anything so he doesn’t bother moving. The longer he sits there though, the more apparent it becomes that Cas is uncomfortable. He sits stiffly, carefully guarding the remaining distance between them with solid posture and rigid limbs, and finally it wears on Dean enough that he shifts back toward the other end of the couch. Only then does Cas’ posture relax. A tension bleeds out of the room then, one that Dean can hear in the soft sigh of Cas’ breath and see in the set of his shoulders and feel in the way he sinks into the couch. There’s never been this level of discomfort between them before. Even after Cas relaxes, Dean can’t help fixating on it, though he can’t place a finger on the meaning. It’s probably the kiss. He’s probably afraid Dean’s going to do something stupid again and he’s trying to keep himself walled off to avoid it. Dean feels something tighten in his chest at the idea that he’s created this tension with his own hands. Why can’t he touch things without breaking them?

Dean’s in bed by ten. It’s unheard of for a Saturday night but he’s actually going to sleep so it makes sense to go to bed at a decent hour. He finds his copy of Brave New World tucked in to his duffel bag, under a bundle of socks and beside a neatly folded stack of clean boxers, and he reads a couple of chapters before turning off the light and settling in. He falls asleep in the space of minutes, his breathing settling into a slow rhythm as he lies motionless in the safety of Cas’ spare room, warm and cozy. He dreams, but he sleeps too deeply to remember them in the morning.

 

This becomes the routine they settle into over the next few days. Cas wakes before Dean and brews coffee. He makes breakfast when Dean wakes up. Dean sleeps in on Sunday because his body is actually letting him sleep, but on the weekdays he’s up not long after Cas. They eat breakfast together, leave for work, and when they return home in the evening, Cas makes dinner while Dean keeps him company and washes the dishes. They watch a movie, spend the evening relaxing, and Dean goes to sleep contented and calm. He wakes up feeling rejuvenated.

Dean doesn’t even realize what an impact it’s having on his life until Wednesday afternoon, when he walks past Bobby and the man smiles at him, wide and toothy.

“It’s good to see you actin’ like yourself again, boy,” Bobby says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I was beginnin’ to worry.”

“Yeah, I uh…I was going through some stuff…” Dean replies, unsure how exactly to approach that statement. No one else has commented on his behaviour, so it’s unclear in exactly what ways Bobby thinks he’s been acting unlike himself, but it’d probably be weird to ask so he leaves it. “Thanks.” It throws him off though. Bobby doesn’t do the feelings thing any more than Dean does, not usually. He shrugs it off but the rest of the afternoon he’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for Bobby to swoop in and make some other observation about his behaviour.

 

“I think I might go home tomorrow.” Dean places the last of the dishes in the cupboard and hangs his damp towel on the bar to dry. Cas is just putting the last of the curry he’d made for dinner into the fridge, little containers of leftovers to take for lunch the next day. He glances up when Dean speaks. “I’ve commandeered your spare room long enough.” Cas replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Not like I’m using it for anything else, Dean. That’s why it’s called a spare room. But if you’re feeling like you’re ready, then yeah, that’s what you should do.”

“I am. I mean I think I am. I don’t actually know, you know? Like none of it really makes any sense but I’ve had five solid nights of actual sleep and I don’t feel like I’m walking around in a fog anymore so I think it’s probably about time. I’m going to have to go back eventually. I can’t stay here forever.” Dean’s eyes follow Cas around the kitchen as he speaks. He’s fussing with little details, straightening and tidying things that are clearly already tidy, and it’s a stretched out moment before he replies.

“Do you think you’ll start looking for a new apartment?” Cas’s voice is soft when he speaks. It sounds like they’re not the words he wants to use, just the only ones he’ll let himself say. Dean ignores it. Cas is probably relieved to get his space back, that’s all. Relieved to have the quietude of his apartment back.

“Probably. Sam is right, I could find something way better if I take a little time to look. It doesn’t have to be right downtown; I can commute a little, maybe rent a little house a little further away. Somewhere with a yard and a driveway. And even if it’s just another apartment it’s bound to be better than what I’ve got.” Dean drags a hand through his hair and stares intently at his shoes like he’s embarrassed to have said so much, but Cas smiles at his musings.

“That’s great Dean. I’m glad. Will you go home right after work then?”

“Well actually, I was thinking I could come back here and pick up my stuff, and you could come over with me. I owe you at least one meal since you’ve basically babysat me this past week. It’s the least I could do to thank you.” Dean offers up his most winning smile, though there’s no particular reason it should matter to him whether Cas comes over for dinner or not. He’s well rested and bordering on sane, and though he’s not set foot in the apartment in five days, the memories of the torment he suffered there are faded to the point where they’re just that, memories.

“Dean…you don’t owe me anything. You’re my best friend. Of course I’m going to help you out when you hit a rough patch. Don’t be absurd.” Cas rests a hand on Dean’s arm as he speaks, just a light touch as if he’s trying to reassure Dean in some way. Something unspoken hangs in the quiet between them in that moment, something shared in the light touch or the way their eyes don’t quite meet. Cas looks like he might say something else, but he looks like that a lot lately, so Dean doesn’t ponder it too long when the additional words don’t come.

“Fine then. Let me treat you to dinner because I want to. Whatever makes you stop arguing.”

“I’m not arguing,” Cas says with a pout, but he agrees, so it’s a win in Dean’s book.

 

When Dean said he planned to treat Cas to dinner, what he actually meant was “I’ll pay for takeout.” Whether the mouldy cheese was fact or imagination became entirely irrelevant as soon as Dean realized he hadn’t been home to buy groceries in nearly a week, and hadn’t been buying anything that wasn’t packaged or instant or frozen for several weeks before that. He doesn’t have the energy to restock the entire kitchen right now, and since he threw away literally everything in his fridge the other day, it’s takeout or go hungry.

“Technically, I never said I would _make_ you dinner, just that I would provide it. This is a totally legitimate fulfilment of my promise,” he retorts when Cas complains.

“Yeah but I mean, anyone can order takeout.” Cas takes the bag of food from Dean’s hands and steps to the side while Dean fishes his keys out and unlocks the apartment door. Dean pauses for longer than is entirely necessary. If Cas notices that he’s hesitating, he doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently until Dean decides he’s ready to open the door.

It’s anticlimactic to say the least when he opens the door and the apartment is exactly as it should be. The bananas sit on the counter still, slightly browned from several days of exposure but certainly not the sludgy mess he recalls running out on. It should be a relief but instead Dean finds himself disappointed. If he could show Cas the rotten bananas, the mouldy cheese, it would be proof that he didn’t imagine it, proof that he’s not crazy. If it was a thing happening to him instead of a thing in his head, he wouldn’t have a long period of soul searching ahead to try to figure out what was causing his brain to play these cruel tricks on him. Dean would rather avoid that at all costs. If he’s put up a block against something, repressed some idea or memory to the point where it’s manifesting on mirrors and in dreams, he’s probably safe in assuming it’s kind of a big deal and he’s not sure he has the energy to approach a major epiphany right now. He much prefers whiskey and denial.

Dean throws his duffel bag on the floor without a backward glance and takes the food into the kitchen. With Cas here he feels safe, protected even, but he still can’t help the way his skin crawls with anticipation. It’s not until they’re seated in front of the TV with Batman Begins on the screen and plates of Thai food in front of them that Dean finally starts to feel at ease.

It’s just like old times. Cas is staunchly DC and Dean leans much more to the Marvel side of things, so the debate rages endlessly as they eat. The movie is basically background noise at this point anyway. They’ve both seen it enough times that there’s no real need to pay attention.

“Look, Batman’s awesome, but all I’m saying is that he would be nothing without Alfred,” Dean says, gesturing with his fork as he speaks around a mouthful of noodles. Cas refrains from saying anything about his manners. He gave up on correcting Dean’s decorum long ago.

“Batman would be a very different hero without Alfred’s support, but that’s what it is, support. He’s not _nothing_ without him, he’s just better with him.” Cas pauses to collect his thoughts for a moment before continuing. “Bruce Wayne would probably have been successful in the long run even without Alfred’s help, but he got there faster with it.”

“I disagree. Alfred was instrumental in pretty much every stage of the inception of Batman. I don’t think Bruce would have lived to adulthood without Alfred, let alone made it through some of the stupid stuff he pulled when he was first doing the vigilante thing. Who stitched him up when he got wounded in a fight? Alfred. A superhero is defined by the things he has that an average guy can’t have. Batman has Alfred. That’s his superpower.”

“Uh huh. If he’s so dependent on Alfred, how does he survive when Alfred leaves in Dark Knight Rises?” Cas speaks smugly, like he’s sure Dean won’t be able to counter the argument, but Dean has thought of this already.

“He barely does! It’s practically a suicide mission. Nope, I’m totally calling it. Batman would be nothing without Alfred, and he knows it.”

“I don’t think you give Batman enough credit,” Cas says, but there’s a sly smile on his lips as he speaks. He may disagree with Dean’s argument but the fire in his voice is something that’s been missing lately and its return is more than welcome. He’ll take it.

Cas stands to leave when the movie ends. They still have work tomorrow, so even though they’d both much rather stay up and watch the remaining two films in the trilogy, that’ll have to wait for another night.

“Friday,” Cas says, as he shrugs his jacket on and checks the pockets for his keys, wallet and cellphone.

“Do you want a ride home?” Dean asks, suddenly aware that Cas is here without his car.

“No it’s fine. The walk isn’t that long. I’ll be fine.” And then Cas is gone, the door shut behind him and the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway, and Dean is alone with his ghosts once more.

 


	16. January 22nd, 1:05am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can’t sleep. He turned in shortly after Cas left, tucking himself into bed in a hoodie and sleep pants just after ten in the hopes that his more well-rested mind would allow him to lie down in his actual bed for the first time in a while. It’s apparent now that his problems aren’t so easily solved. The red numerals on his clock radio advance with relentless purpose no matter how much he wills them to stop and as they go they take with them the sense of calm he regained during his convalescence at Cas’ place over the last week. Now he lies awake, staring at the ceiling with his anxiety spiking in a way he’s all too familiar with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains potentially triggering subject matter for people with anxiety issues. If this sounds like you and you'd like a summary in lieu of reading the chapter, drop me a comment or throw it in my ask on [Tumblr](http://shennanigoats.tumblr.com) and I'll fill you in so you can still follow along

Dean can’t sleep. He turned in shortly after Cas left, tucking himself into bed in a hoodie and sleep pants just after ten in the hopes that his more well-rested mind would allow him to lie down in his actual bed for the first time in a while. It’s apparent now that his problems aren’t so easily solved. The red numerals on his clock radio advance with relentless purpose no matter how much he wills them to stop and as they go they take with them the sense of calm he regained during his convalescence at Cas’ place over the last week. Now he lies awake, staring at the ceiling with his anxiety spiking in a way he’s all too familiar with.

Maybe it’s the anticipation. Maybe he can’t sleep because of the uncertainty. There’s the distinct possibility that there’s nothing for him to be worried about. The only visible indicator of his experiences has been proven false in his own eyes and in Cas’ so he really doesn’t have much to go on. Maybe it’s the memory of the fear he’s experienced. Lying in the dark now, it’s hard not to let the silence of the room call up images and recollections of the things he’s borne witness to.

Dean wonders how long this can go on for. He wonders if he can last long enough to find a new place and move, leaving behind all the memories and the fears. He wonders if that will be enough. There’s nothing in this to make him sure his fears are something he can actually run from. He wonders how long he can hold out before he snaps. It’ll be worse next time, he’s sure of that. He can’t run to Cas again, not again. Not without answers he doesn’t have. Cas will take him in, sure. Cas won’t turn him away in his hour of need. But he’s acutely aware of Cas’ admonishment, his insistence that Dean sort himself out, and it’s clear that his seemingly infinite patience doesn’t extend to letting Dean repeat his mistakes over and over without calling him out. And Dean is fairly certain that he won’t get away with ‘I don’t know’ next time, if there is a next time.

He heaves a sigh and rolls onto his side. The closet door looms in the shadows but this time there’s no radio static emanating from the dark recesses of the room. There’s nothing else hiding in there but it’s still unsettling. Why the radio? Dean made no attempts that night to dig into whatever meaning might be hidden in his torment but now that Cas has cast doubt on everything and made him wonder if it might not be all in his head, there’s questions to be asked. If he manufactured all of this, then why? Why the radio? Why the mirror? Why the hand on his shoulder? Why any of it?

It’s not a road he wants to go down but it’s not as if he has any choice. Cas was right about one thing; his problems aren’t going to fix themselves. He’s sick and literally tired of living in fear. He wants to sleep. He wants to feel comfortable in his own home again.

It doesn’t feel like home here. It never has. This apartment has never welcomed him in, allowed him to put down the roots he wants. He’s tied here but not in any of the ways he wants to be. He’s shackled to this place by fear and inaction, by an attachment to the parts of the past that he never learned to move past. In the morning, Dean resolves, he will start looking for a new place to call home.

The minutes tick by without measure, and still Dean finds no rest. No position he lies in, no attempts he makes to calm him mind can bring any sense of peace. Rather, as time marches on relentless and unyielding, Dean finds himself growing more and more restless, more anxious. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up so gradually that he almost misses the sign, the creeping dread that weaves its tendrils around his limbs and it holds him in its icy grip before he knows what’s happening. By the time he realizes, it’s fully upon him and there’s nothing he can do to wrest himself from its clutches. Knowing the fear doesn’t make it better. He knows that now.

Dean resists the impulse to look over his shoulder. It’s a harrowing challenge. He’s torn between an unquenchable desire to know, to throw open his eyes and prove to himself that nothing’s there and the bone-shaking terror that comes along with the half formed idea that he’ll turn over and there won’t be just blackness behind him. He can’t move. He’s not sure he wants to.

Dean’s ears pick up the sound long before his mind registers what he’s hearing. It’s thin and hollow like an echo and it’s nearly unidentifiable even once he acknowledges it, but it doesn’t fade and it doesn’t swell, just sets into his mind with dogged persistence. The buzzing reminds him of bees, swarming and legion. He can almost feel the wake of their countless wings on his skin. It’s only imagination, he tells himself. It’s all in his mind.

Cas told him the bananas didn’t rot. Cas told him he imagined it. Cas told him there was nothing happening to him, that it was only his mind creating landscapes of terror to disturb his sleep. In the daylight, Dean had seen fit to at least try to believe that, and even sitting on the couch with Cas earlier it had seemed a plausible outcome. He’d felt more comfortable in his own space then than he had dared to in a long, long time.

It was foolish of Dean to hope that those thin threads of hope would last longer than the protective shield of Cas’ company. That’s clear now. Even as the background dread swells to foreground panic he’s aware that it was a misstep. He shouldn’t have come home. He could have stayed in Cas’ spare room until he found a new apartment, gone back in the day to move his things out, and never looked back. He could have left it all behind. Then he wouldn’t be here right now in the dark, paralyzed by fear while the intrusive buzzing drills its way into his brain and the thought of what he might see if he opens his eyes weighs heavily on him. He’d be sleeping somewhere safe and warm.

The second his thoughts are interrupted by the cutting hissing “SHHHHHH” he springs into action. His feet hit the floor in a flurry and he’s across the room throwing on the light and spinning to take in as much of the now-lit room as he can in as little time as possible. Of course he sees nothing. Of course there’s nothing there.

Dean’s heart thuds in his chest with such force that he feels like it’s going to beat its way right out of his ribcage and into his waiting hands. He wills himself to rationality and tries to force longer, slower breaths into his lungs. It’s almost part way effective and he manages to slow his heart rate to something that doesn’t ring in his ears just as he notices the buzzing has stopped. For a split second, it seems like a reprieve, a release from all the things that get under his skin and gnaw at him until he’s raw, but in the absence he can hear another noise picking up. This one is immediately familiar. It has him shaking his head almost immediately.

“No,” Dean mutters under his breath, incredulous. The faint strains of radio static tease his ears. He turns his head this way and that trying to pinpoint the source, but no matter how he moves it comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. In so much contrast to his paralysis of minutes past, he strides immediately across the room, bolder than he feels, and throws open the closet. The radio isn’t going to be there. He knows it isn’t. He threw it out weeks ago in the bottom of a dumpster. It’s dead and gone. Still, his hands move without instruction and he pulls the box from the closet. It’s the one on top now. The box the radio had lived in is the last one he put back that morning, after a night flipping through old memories. He never did remember to ask Cas if he’s got a photo album done up. It never came up. The other night, when he told Cas his stories, it hadn’t seemed important. He’s suddenly struck with a desperate need to know. He wishes he’d asked.

When he pulls open the flaps of the box and his hands fall on the old yearbook, the static stops abruptly. Dean huffs a derisive laugh. He’s got no desire for a trip down memory lane. Not now. Once he’s rifled through the box and satisfied himself that the little waterlogged radio hasn’t come back from beyond the grave, he shoves the box away with both hands and turns away.

There isn’t a plan in his mind, not really. It’s all instinct and impulse, action and reaction. It’s one big feedback loop of input and output and within minutes, Dean finds himself pacing the floor between his bed and the door, hands clutching impotently at his head like he can hold his sanity in if he grips it tight enough. He’s not looking at the clock, really he’s not. His eyes fall on the red numerals and he doesn’t take the information in. He can’t process. It’s not real enough.

Dean stops in front of the nightstand, his motions halting and jerky. His hands flex, clenching and unclenching at his sides, waiting for instruction from a brain that’s forgotten how to direct them. Dean watches with distant eyes as his right hand darts out and grabs his phone, unplugging the charging cable. He flips it open and his thumbs work on the keys; he’s half way through typing out a message to Cas before he shuts the phone and laughs at himself. Cas won’t be awake right now. Cas won’t get his message. And besides, he’s got better things to do than to coddle a grown man who can’t escape his own nightmares.

He’s startled out of self pity when the static starts up again, but it’s not coming from the closet. It’s sharper, persistent, and it feels almost like a physical thing, coming off his clock radio in waves that push him backwards in staggered steps. He’s nearly at the door before he can bring himself to half the motion but he makes an immediate decision not to, instead throwing the bedroom door open and stumbling out into the hallway.

Dean lets the door close behind him, but he can still hear the static. It chases him down the hallway with dwindling power, lessening and weakening but never truly letting go. Even as he backs into the end of the couch he can hear it beckoning to him from behind the door, clawing at the edges of his sanity. It’s an invitation he wants nothing more than to reject, but it won’t stop calling.

Dean spins on his heels as blue light blazes to light behind him. The TV flickers into being, casting eerie shadows on the walls with its dim haze. It’s some old romance from the early days of colour pictures, when the hues were somehow both oversaturated and washed out all at once, when contrast and definition were just slightly out of reach of the technology. It’s a poor imitation of life, this film. Everything seems too real even in its sterile sound-staged glory. He watches in awe for a moment, whether at the film itself or the fact that it’s on the screen at all, he doesn’t know. Then, Dean shakes himself free of the siren song of the television, grabs shoes and his coat, and takes off out the door.

He doesn’t even stop to put the shoes on until he’s in the lobby, barely taking time to settle the jacket on his shoulders before pushing open the door and taking off at a steady pace. His feet know where he’s going before his mind admits it, but there could only be one destination.

 


	17. January 22nd, 2:20 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Dean doesn’t hesitate to press the buzzer. The silence of the night air weighs heavily on him for so long he thinks Cas isn’t going to answer. He’s just about to raise his hand and jab a thumb into the button again when the intercom clicks over and carries a voice down the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, home stretch! Are you ready for this? Thank you so much for all your amazing comments and your flailing its seriously inspiring!!!

This time, Dean doesn’t hesitate to press the buzzer. The silence of the night air weighs heavily on him for so long he thinks Cas isn’t going to answer. He’s just about to raise his hand and jab a thumb into the button again when the intercom clicks over and carries a voice down the line.

“Hello?” Cas says groggily. His voice is hoarse and rough, even rougher than usual. It’s still a comfort.

“It’s Dean,” he chokes out. Cas doesn’t even reply, doesn’t ask what he’s doing there. The door makes a disjointed clicking-buzzing noise as the maglock disengages and Dean opens it, ducking in with haste lest his fear find him here and follow him into the hall. He stands still as a statue as the elevator carries him up. The red plaid of his sleep pants makes a garish picture against the floral carpet of the elevator floor. He must look ridiculous, flannel tucked into work boots, hoodie under leather jacket. Idly, Dean wonders what tee-shirt he’s wearing underneath. He doesn’t remember which one he grabbed out of the laundry basket.

Cas is standing outside his apartment door when Dean makes his way out of the elevator and down the hallway. His arms are crossed but if he’s annoyed at being woken like this he keeps it off his face masterfully. Dean follows him into the apartment and at the soft click of the door latching behind him, he opens his mouth to breathe a sigh of relief and instead something breaks inside him and Dean falls to pieces.

There’s an awful feeling in his belly, guilt and regret and anguish made manifest in the writhing, twitching way it flips, and at the same time it’s like butterflies. Not the in the way that hackneyed romance novelists would describe them. Not the flutter of tiny wings beating gently against his insides, drawing attention to the point in the plot where he falls in love, but like a teeming mass of little _somethings_ , straining to escape the confines of his abdomen, moving with a mob mentality and trying desperately to get out. It’s horrible and cruel and painful and although he knows it’s all in his head he can’t help the sob that escapes his lips as he falls into the first real human embrace he’s felt since god only knows when. It’s the first pair of arms that have wrapped around him that he hasn’t wanted to flee from in more years than he could care to count, the first lips pressed to his face that were giving and not asking for anything in return, the first body he’s huddled against for anything other than warmth or fleeting release. He can hear himself crying, wretched sobs, and he struggles to maintain some sense of stoicism, because the walls that are crumbling right now are ones that he built with his own hands and it feels wrong to tear them down, feels wrong not to fight their destruction. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he wants to see what’s on the other side of those walls, wants to know what it’s like to let someone in to his fortress, but he fights it anyway because fighting is what he knows, what he does best. He struggles to choke back the tears, because as soon as it’s a trickle it’s a monsoon, and before he knows what’s happening he’s sobbing in to Cas’s shoulder, soaking his shirt in tears and sweat and it’s all of a sudden very real, _too real_ , and the only thing he can think to do to stop it is to run. But those arms, those comforting arms are holding him too tight, pressed up against that warm chest. The warmth is physical, seeping into the tension in his own limbs, sending out little tendrils of comfort, of tender resolve, but it’s intangible too, the knowledge that he’s being held, blanketed in someone else’s attention, not judged, no expectations, and if he’s honest he doesn’t really want to run from this. Cas hums something soothing, something wordless and abstract, but the low timbre of his voice is enough, he doesn’t need words, he’s just reminding Dean that he’s there, that he’s not alone. Dean loses track of how long they stay this way, himself a sobbing mess, swept up in a raging torrent of emotion, and Cas, the boulder in the channel, the thing he’s clinging to for dear life, the thing that’s keeping him from drowning.

When he finally stems the flow of tears and dries his eyes on the sleeve of his hoodie, Dean hiccups and draws himself up, intending to pull back from Cas’s embrace. They’ve tumbled to the floor somehow, Dean can’t place exactly how this happened, and his legs ache to stand but Cas is holding him just a little too tight to break free from without handling him roughly. He clutches at Cas’ shoulders and starts to push himself back. If only he can make some space between them, Cas will see that he’s fine, he can stand on his own, it’s ok, but instead he finds himself leaning in, falling forward to press his lips to Cas’ and _oh yes,_ this is what it feels like to be alive again.

Cas emits a startled gasp when their lips first meet. It’s a soft sound, honest surprise, but it’s gone as soon as Dean hears it. Cas is frozen in his arms with limbs stiff and rigid and it seems that Dean has made a terrible miscalculation but then Cas’ lips become soft and pliant under his own as Cas kisses him back. He sinks into the kiss with no reservations, letting Dean’s tongue slip between his lips and taste Cas’ mouth. He doesn’t taste like bourbon this time, and Dean is grateful for it. There’s no excuses to hide behind now. No fear to stop him from enjoying this. There’s just Cas, his warm mouth welcoming Dean in like he wants this, like he’s been waiting for it, and the realization slams into Dean like a punch to the gut.

“How long?” Dean says softly as he raises a hand to tilt Cas’ jaw up so he can look him in the eye. Cas’ lashes flutter and he laughs softly against Dean’s mouth.

“God, you are dense, aren’t you. Since junior year. Since always.” His hands are a soothing source of heat where they rest on Dean’s hips.

“Jesus Christ Cas, you’ve been carrying a torch all this time and you never said anything? Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean can’t hide his surprise.

“Ah yes, that would have been a brilliant idea. Profess my love for my straight best friend, the one who I had no reason to believe had any interest in men? A well advised plan if I ever heard one.”

“Ok, that’s a fair point. But Damnit Cas, for ten years, really?” Dean leans in to kiss him again, feeling the way Cas’ body moulds to his as they press close together. He licks into Cas’ mouth, little tiny flicks of his tongue mapping out lips he never imagined he’d be kissing and Cas kisses him right back, tilting his head to the side to allow their mouths to slot together for a moment before drawing back to speak.

“Do you want to talk, or do you want to kiss me?” Cas asks. The tone of his voice says he’s already sure of the answer but he asks anyway, pausing only a moment before leaning back in to claim Dean’s lips. He kisses softly, tenderly, and it takes only moments before Dean loses himself in the sensation. Cas’ lips are soft and sweet, sweeter than he ever imagined, and it’s so very easy to succumb to the allure of Cas, the soft sounds he makes and the touch of his hands and the way his tongue sweeps out to taste Dean’s mouth. Dean’s brain, his treacherous brain, it rebels and rails against the idea, screams at Dean to stop and back away, to run and flee and cease, but for once he doesn’t listen. Of course it’s weird kissing another man. He’s never dared to let himself think about it but now that he feels the rough texture of Cas’ stubble against his face and feels the firm unyielding weight of Cas’ body pressed against him, it doesn’t seem so foreign. Cas feels like home with limbs wrapped tight around him and lips yielding to gentle pressure, feels like home in a way that Dean didn’t even know he wanted until he tasted it and how he can’t bear to let go. His own arms entwine around Cas, holding on to the one thing that’s kept him sane through this whole inexplicable ordeal. Cas is his source of strength, his tether, and Dean clings to him with limbs and soul, trying to say with kisses and gentle touches what he still can’t conjure into words or even coherent thoughts. He hopes Cas knows, hope he can feel what this means, because if he has to say it out loud Dean is certain he’ll buckle under the pressure. Pain flares in his knees and he realizes how long he’s been kneeling on the floor. Even soft carpet does little to dull the ache on his sore joints. Cas feels it too, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly as his lips move against Dean’s. There’s no urgency to the kiss and for that, Dean is grateful. There’s no pressure, no demand. He can just focus on the delicious way Cas’ tongue slides in to his mouth, the way Cas smells and tastes and feels, the way his entire perception is taken up with a man who has been in his life for so many years that they know everything about each other and yet Dean feels like he’s meeting him for the first time. His hands move to explore flesh so familiar yet unlearned, slipping under the thin tee-shirt Cas wore to bed, finding warm skin and hard muscle as they caress his sides. Cas melts under the touch. His body moves almost unbidden as he leans into touches and chases the feel of Dean’s hands on his skin. Cas makes sounds Dean has never heard from that mouth before. He sighs against Dean’s mouth and moves a hand up to cradle Dean’s face and Dean finds himself leaning in to the touch, chasing a sensation he never knew he craved until now.

Cas breaks away from the heated kiss to mouth at Dean’s jaw. His tongue trails languidly as he presses open-mouthed kisses along Dean’s throat, his collarbone, and all Dean can do is throw his head back and bare more skin. Cas’ kisses stir something in Dean he can’t put words to yet but can’t resist either. He takes everything Cas gives him, the heat of his lips, the pressure of his hands, and he wants so much more but there’s no part of Dean that’s ready to admit it so he just takes what he’s given and tries not to fall to pieces under the gentle caress of Cas’ fingertips.

Cas stands up so abruptly that Dean is immediately concerned that he’s crossed some unseen line. An apology forms on his lips but dies unspoken as Cas holds out a hands, beckoning for Dean to stand with him and he’s so, so enraptured by the way Cas looks in the dim light of a single lightbulb that he ceases to think entirely as he follows his friend to the bedroom, lets himself be led by the hand into the dark room. Cas crowds into Dean’s space immediately. Their bodies line up knees to shoulders, and any distress Dean experiences at the sensation of Cas pressed up against him, the hard line of his dick apparent through the thin fabric of his boxers, is dissolved by the overwhelming sense of want that fills his mind and clouds his judgement.

Dean still wears his coat, his hoodie, his sweats and his boots and his tee-shirt. He suddenly feels claustrophobic in all this fabric. As soon as he starts to shrug out of his outer garments, Cas takes the hint and helps. He unzips the hoodie as Dean pushes the leather jacket from his shoulders, running his hands along the planes of Dean’s chest as it rises and falls heavy with the weight of his actions. Even as he speaks though, his hands grip Dean’s tee-shirt like he’s afraid Dean will vanish if he lets go. Now that he’s out from under his layers, Dean can see that it’s his favourite one, the AC/DC one that Cas always tries to steal.Dean pulls the hem of his shirt up and tosses it aside but he feels frozen in place when it leaves his hands. Cas’ eyes are locked on him, staring at Dean’s now bare chest with desire and admiration. He doesn’t remember the last time anyone looked at him like that. Lust he’s familiar with, but this is so, so much more than that. It’s amazing to be looked at like that. “Dean?” Cas is saying, his voice soft, tinged with concern. “What’s wrong?”

 _Nothing’s wrong,_ Dean wants to say, but the words die in his throat and he can’t bring them back up. So before he has a chance to panic and change his mind, Dean takes confident steps and closes the gap between them, seizing the moment and Cas’ shoulders, and kisses him.

“You…You’re serious about this? I don’t want anything from you that you’re not offering freely and if you’re not totally sure maybe we should just…talk about this?”

“And what if I’m offering everything?” Dean asks the question tentatively, the words slipping from his lips softly as his eyes meet Cas’ again. Those eyes are so deep he can’t fathom how he’s never taken notice before but it doesn’t matter now. Cas answers by drawing him down so their mouths can meet again, sweeping his tongue into Dean’s mouth with tender insistence as his palms press flat on . The skin on skin contact is unexpected but not unwelcome and Dean finds himself making soft noises against Cas’ mouth.

Dean’s hands are on Cas’ shirt before he knows he’s given them permission, dragging it up and off his body, but there’s a clear picture in his mind of where this is going and it’s decidedly not a clothing-required affair so he supposes it will have to go eventually. Cas nips at his bottom lip as the shirt falls to the floor, his blunt fingernails raking across Dean’s back for a moment before his hands settle on Dean’s hips and draw him in closer. The hard planes of Cas’ chest pressed against his own are a welcome prize when he succeeds and he claims them greedily, learning by touch all the skin his friend has hidden beneath suits all these years, just as he’s hidden how much he’s wanted this very moment. Dean still can’t quite wrap his head around it, this affection, this _love_ he feels for his best friend but he knows how to listen to his body and the thing that overwhelms all the emotion right now is how much he _wants._

He wants to taste the sweat on Castiel’s skin. He wants to feel how they move together. He wants all the things Cas has dreamed of during their years of friendship but has never put voice to.

Dean succumbs to temptation. It’s a feeling he’s rather familiar with, although never manifested exactly like this. Everywhere Cas touches his skin it feels hot, so hot. Cas is burning away everything at the tips of his fingers; Dean’s fear, his apprehension, his denial. They strip away all the things Dean has used to shield himself from the truth, those little touches, and in the end they lay bare the truth that Dean can see so clearly now. Castiel has been right in front of him all these years. All he had to do was reach out and touch him.

“I’ve wasted so much time, Cas,” he murmurs in between kisses. Cas smiles against his mouth and steps backwards. There’s so little light filtering in from the hallway but it’s enough for Dean to see the sparkle in his eyes, the smile pulling delicately at the corners of his mouth.

“And we’ve got all the time in the world to make up for it.” Cas guides Dean towards the bed, letting him pause to kick out of his boots. His hands are unhurried and gentle as they clutch the fabric of Dean’s sleep pants. They descend slowly, carefully, falling to the floor under the reverent hands of Castiel. Those hands glide up the back of Dean’s calves, the front of his thighs, and he takes hold of Dean’s hips as his tongue darts out to lick teasingly at the head of Dean’s cock. It’s a question, and Dean moans out an answer with far more enthusiasm than is strictly dignified. He’s not hiding anymore, though. Not from this. Never again.

“Cas…” the word tumbles out breathy and thin. He should say something else, something concrete but he can’t seem to select any more words so it hangs in the air alone.

“It’s ok Dean. I’ve got you.” And Cas is pushing on his hips with those firm hands, guiding him back onto the bed. Cas drops his own shorts before following, settling himself between Dean’s legs to wrap a hand around the base of his shaft and his lips around the head. Cas’ mouth is perfection. His tongue drags and swirls as Cas sets an arrhythmic pace, taunting and teasing to the point where Dean doesn’t know what to expect. It’s so good like this. Cas takes him out of his head with gentle pressure one minute, and the next he’s drawing Dean’s whole length into his mouth, letting the head of his cock bump against the back of his throat and Dean can’t focus on anything else but the sensations he’s bombarded with.

Dean’s hands have gripped the sheets with such force that it’s a surprise to find he hasn’t clawed them to shreds. There’s so much skill in Cas’ mouth, so much desire to please, but Dean thinks the best thing about it might just have to be the fact that it’s Cas’ mouth doing these things to him, pulling these moans from his mouth.

He reaches down to card a hand through Cas’ eternally messy hair as the man pulls his mouth off of Dean’s cock and licks from root to tip. His free hand presses Dean’s hips into the mattress but even so it’s a fight to keep himself from thrusting upwards into the wet heat that envelops just the tip of his dick. Cas drags his tongue in slow circles, swirling around the head and humming with pleasure like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever had in his mouth. Dean supposes that after ten years of silent pining, it just might feel that way.

“Jesus Christ!” Dean chokes out the curse as his hips buck up without permission in response to the way Cas is swallowing him down. His mouth is magical. It turns Dean to putty, makes him groan out in heady desperation, makes his eyelids flutter and his head swim. “Oh my god Cas, you have to stop or this is going to be over way too fast.” Dean’s not exaggerating. He can already feel release looming at the edge of his perception. Another time, perhaps, he’d love to drag this out, love to let Cas take him to pieces with that perfect mouth, but he’s so full of adrenaline leftover from his panicked flight over here that he’s going to go off like a rocket if he doesn’t get a moment to catch his breath.

Cas obliges, pulling his wet lips off of Dean’s cock with only a little bit of a pout, and climbs up the bed to let Dean wrap arms around him and press their mouths together. Dean kisses hungrily now, his hand insistent at the back of Cas’ neck as if there’s any reality in which Cas would want to leave this embrace now that he’s in it. Their hips roll together, bodies in unison, and Dean can’t help but take notice of the hard, hot line of Cas’ cock pressed tight against his thigh. It makes him groan to think that Cas is hard for him, hard because of him. Suddenly there’s nothing in the world Dean wants more than to make Cas feel good but he’s admittedly at a loss how to proceed.

He reaches down and cups the curve of Cas’ ass at the same time he pushes his hips up. Cas moans, high and needy, and the next thing to fall from his lips is a litany of whispered pleas and near-silent begging that Dean is powerless to resist.

“Please Dean I…” Cas gasps as Dean grinds their hips together again. “I need you.” The words cut right to Dean’s core, tugging at the consuming desire to make Cas happy that he’s been feeling for years now, countless years, and only just now learned to put a name to. Now that he has Cas, now that he knows he _can_ have Cas, there’s nothing in the world Dean won’t do to make him happy.

“What do you need, baby?” Dean breathes the words out low and sultry against the shell of Cas’ ear, cringing to himself at the ease with which the pet name slips into conversation. Cas doesn’t notice the slight recoil, or he does and he pretends not to. The result is the same either way.

“I need you inside of me,” Cas says now, more confident, and he reaches over to his nightstand for lube and a condom. Dean takes the lube when it’s offered, squeezing a healthy quantity onto his fingers before reaching back and sliding graceful into the cleft of Cas’ ass. Cas tenses at the intrusion of Dean’s first finger, relaxing gradually with hushed sighs and whispered praise.

From his vantage point perched above Cas’ reclined form, Dean has a perfect view of the rapturous look that spreads across his face as Dean works him open with slow, gentle fingers. He’s silent at first, soft breaths whispering past his parted lips. His eyes are just barely open, lashes fluttering as his body responds to Dean’s touches. He sighs as Dean pushes a second finger past the puckered ring of muscle, stretching him open and slicking him up. The sigh turns to moans and gasps as Dean scissors his fingers and slides in a third finger, his attentions taking down all of Cas’ inhibitions until the room is filled with his desperate noises and he’s writhing on the sheets with wanton need and abandon.

When Dean turns his attention to his own cock, hard and leaking, to roll on the condom, Cas sits up and grips Dean by the shoulders. He waits only long enough for Dean to finish his task before rolling the other man onto his back and straddling his hips. Dean can’t find it in himself to protest but even if he wanted to there is only the space of a breath left open for him to do so before Cas is kissing him feverishly and lining Dean’s cock up with his slick hole. Cas takes his time settling in, sinking down until all of Dean is buried deep inside him, their hips flush. All the while he kisses Dean, his lips gentle but insistent, his breath slipping out in short, feverish gasps as he adjusts to the incredible full feeling.

He’s still for so long that Dean starts to worry something is wrong. His hands play at Cas’ shoulders, fingers working in soothing circles and as Cas draws back, Dean opens his mouth to express concern, to assuage Cas’ worries but there’s no need. The look on Cas’ face, so dimly visible in the low light is one of awe and wonder, of joy and love and pleasure, and it’s so reverent that Dean can’t bring himself to believe that it’s all because of him.

Cas sits up, his eyes still focused on Dean. His hands press gently on Dean’s chest as he begins to move his hips in slow undulating circles and Dean brings his hands up to clutch at Cas’ thighs. The air rushes out of his lungs as Cas rocks gently. Dean feels like he should participate more somehow, that there’s something he should be doing with Cas or to Cas or for Cas, but the feeling of Cas wrapped around him, the achingly slow motion of his hips has short-circuited Dean’s brain. The only thing that occurs to him is to hang on for dear life, so his fingers bite into Cas’ thighs and his mouth falls open as he draws shaky breaths and watches with reverence while Cas works his magic.

Cas sets a deliberate and measured pace. He moves with meaning; each time his hips come down to meet with Dean’s he pours years of longing and frustration out, each touch of his hands on Dean’s chest speaks words he’s ached to say for a decade or more. Dean feels all of it with every piece of him.

Falling forward with his arms braced on either side of Dean’s head, Cas presses wet lips to Dean’s throat. Dean slides his hands up Cas’ thighs to caress his hips, guiding him through the gentle rocking as Dean cants his own hips up to meet them each time. It’s perfect, the way they fit together. It’s everything.

Working his hands slowly up the muscles of Cas’ back, Dean entwines his fingers in the damp, sweaty mess of Cas’ dark hair and guides his lips back to where Dean can kiss them. Their teeth click painfully, eliciting startled curses and interrupting the rhythm. Dean laughs at the awkwardness of it. Of course it would be awkward. Everything else with Cas has always been so easy, but the uncharted territory they explore now is the one way in which they’ve never known each other. It’s the final frontier; t here’s bound to be some missteps.

The awkwardness is forgotten as Cas starts moving again. There’s an urgency to the roll of his hips now. Something has shifted in the way he moves, and Dean finds himself breathless and desperately rutting his hips against Cas’ as they move. He clings to Cas with both hands, holding him close, and before long Cas is breathless too. They stop kissing but their mouths still strain to meet, breathing shared air and brushing lips across lips with an unquenchable desire to touch and be touched.

“Cas…” Dean murmurs. He’s full to bursting with such intense emotion, the warmth and desire and affection he feels for Cas overwhelming his senses that he almost misses the signs that he’s getting close to orgasm. Cas’ tongue sneaks its way out to drag along Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean’s hand leaves it’s place at the back of Cas’ head to cradle his chin, holding Cas’s face where he can look into his eyes. “Cas I..I’m gonna…” The words fail on his lips, but Cas knows. He rocks back harder, moaning as he goes, and takes Dean into himself with enthusiasm as he chases that relief. Dean’s mouth hangs open, enrapt with the intensity of it, and just before his orgasm punches through him he draws Cas in and kisses him, really kisses him. His body goes rigid as Cas rides him and even though most of the sound is swallowed up by Cas’ hungry mouth, the sound of his blissed-out moan fills the room. Cas keeps moving, keeps thrusting his hips down and back, and through the haze of his orgasm Dean revives his brain enough to slide a hand between their bodies and take Cas’ dick in hand. He’s hard and throbbing as Dean wraps rough fingers around his length. Cas whimpers softly as Dean clutches him. He moves his hand in short, quick strokes, distracted from the unfamiliar weight of Cas’ cock in his hand by the needy noises emanating from his throat. In only a few short moments, Cas is spilling over Dean’s fingers with Dean’s name on his lips. He collapses onto the bed beside Dean and entwines their fingers as he stares into Dean’s eyes through heavy lidded eyes. Dean knows he should get up and get a wash cloth to clean them up but it feels like there’s something special in this moment so he ignores rationality and pulls Cas close, leaving soft kisses on his sweaty brow as they both struggle to catch their breath. It’s Cas who speaks first.

“I’m gonna get up and turn out the lights. I don’t even think I locked the door when you got here.” Dean watches him walk out of the room, not bothering to put any of his clothes back on as he does, before discarding the condom in the garbage by Cas’ nightstand. When Cas returns he brings a warm cloth and a glass of water for each of them. Dean drinks his down in one gulp, then settles in to bed with his arms around Cas. He’s not a cuddler, Dean Winchester, and he’ll deny it to his dying day if someone says he is, but having Cas curled up in his arms seems like the most natural thing in the world and he sees no reason to fight it. The last thing Dean is aware of before he drifts off into a blissful, dreamless sleep, is how unexpectedly comfortable it is to be sleeping in a bedroom where everything matches


	18. January 22nd, 7:30 am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness kids it's almost over. What a wild ride!

The light that streams through the window in Cas’ bedroom is so different than what he’s used to. In Dean’s room, in Dean’s apartment, there are heavy curtains over the window, ugly beige things that came with the place and do a great job of filtering out the light and not so much of a great job of trapping the heat in the room and keeping the draft away. Cas’ room has those vertical blinds, and they’re angled in such a way that the morning light, little though it is at this early hour, makes patterns across the bedding and meets Dean’s eyes when they flutter open at the sound of Cas’ alarm clock. He drifts on the edge of wakefulness for a moment, not entirely eager to leave the warm confines of Cas’ bed. Cas’ hand darts out from under the blankets to silence his alarm clock somewhat more roughly than is called for, but he rolls to face Dean with a sleepy smile playing at his lips.

“Executive decision,” Cas murmurs. His hair sticks up every which way and Dean decides that the correct word to describe it is probably ‘adorable’ but he’s not prepared to say that out loud so he just smiles back. “I’m not going to work today and neither are you.”

“I’m ok. I got like three, three and a half hours of sleep. I’m golden. I can rock this.” Dean doesn’t believe the words even as he says them but it’s so deeply ingrained in him that you don’t take a sick day unless you’re on death’s door, and he went to work when he slept zero hours so he doesn’t really believe he can justify taking today off.

“No,” Cas says firmly. “You are not rocking anything. You’re going to call Bobby, tell him you’re not coming in today, and get your ass back in bed, and I’m going to make coffee, and we are going to have a conversation we probably should have had last night. This is not open for negotiation.” Cas steps into a clean pair of shorts and walks out of the room without a backwards glance, assuming he’ll be obeyed, and Dean can hear him puttering around in the kitchen. Dean is somewhat slower to get out of bed. He rubs his tired eyes and rolls back over for a moment before kicking off the blankets and casting eyes around the room for his pants. He makes his way back out to his jacket where it lies discarded on the bedroom floor. The sight of it and the hoodie nearby flash his mind back to the night before and Dean feels his face heat with the memory of his emotional outburst. He can’t stamp down the feeling of shame that makes his temples throb but he at least tries to ignore it, retrieving his phone and picking up both the jacket and the hoodie to hang them up by the front door. He scrolls through the contacts in his phone and dials Bobby’s cell. Bobby doesn’t ask for an explanation for Dean’s absence.

“Boy, shut up.” He says, when Dean starts to spin out some explanation about how he he’s tired and maybe under the weather. “The time you took off at Christmas is your first vacation in years. I don’t remember if you ever took a sick day before. I’ll see you Monday.” The phone clicks to silence before Dean can reply.

Dean allows himself a brief trip to the bathroom before climbing back into bed, where Cas is already waiting with a cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand. He’s battled his hair into some semblance of tidiness but he still looks as dishevelled as he always does in the mornings. Dean smiles as he climbs back under the covers and takes the mug from Cas gratefully.

“So last night…” Cas begins gently.

“Last night was the worst.” Dean speaks forcefully. The memory of his torment is still so fresh in his mind that it comes out clear in the fire of his voice. “I felt like I was being driven out of my apartment. And I just ran. All I could think was that I’d be safe if I got here. I’d be safe if I got to you.” Cas’ face softens at these words, but Dean just barrels forward. “I didn’t plan to kiss you and I didn’t plan what happened after.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Cas interjects before Dean can speak any further. He sets his coffee on the nightstand and twists his body around so he can face Dean. “I shouldn’t have let last night happen. Not without telling you how I felt first.”

“Cas don’t worry about it. I know how you feel. I don’t know how I missed it all these years but I get it. Honestly. It’s fine.”

“Please Dean, let me finish.” Dean nods his agreement, sipping carefully at his coffee to stem the flow of words from his mouth. He’s never been good at emotional conversations and Cas knows that, but he owes it to Cas to at least hear him out, though he can’t imagine what else could possibly need to be said. Cas already used a four-letter word beginning with ‘L’ last night. What’s left?

“I shouldn’t have let any of this happen without talking to you first, and I shouldn’t have brushed off the kiss at New Years’ so easily. I can’t do this,” Cas waves a hand between their bare chests, “casually.” He heaves a weighty sigh, one fraught with anticipation and disappointment both. “I have been carrying a torch for far longer than I should have but it’s time to set the record straight, and I should have said this all before things went too far but I was weak. This is what I’ve wanted for so, so long, and if you want it too then I’m all in. You want this to stop here, that’s fine too. I’ll let it go and move on. It won’t be easy now that we…that it’s real, but I can’t live in limbo. I’ve been in love with you for so long I forget what it feels like not to hope. So I need to you decide. Is this part of our past, or part of our future?”

Dean listens to the entire outpouring in silence, his face turning gradually from confusion to incredulity. His mouth works silently as he tries to form the words to respond. His stomach twists. Dean’s conquests over the years have been plentiful and replaceable. It’s no surprise that Cas had taken notice, especially given his revelation, but it cuts to the bone that he could believe for even a second that he’d number among them. Dean shakes his head softly.

“I understand,” he hears Cas say sadly. He doesn’t though. He’s brilliant and kind and perceptive, but when it comes to this he’s basing all his conclusions on ten years of evidence that’s pointing him in entirely the wrong direction.

“No Cas, I don’t think you do.” Dean shuffles closer and draws Cas into his arms. He’s stiff at first, anxious, but after a moment he relaxes into the embrace and his own arms snake around Dean’s waist. “Do you know why I ran here? I didn’t get it at the time, but I’ve been thinking and I figured it out. My apartment has never felt like home. Not since day one. It’s been a place to keep my stuff. It’s a roof over my head and four walls to keep the rain out but it’s never been home. You’re my home, Cas. You have been one of the most important people in my life for years. I gotta admit when I kissed you at New Years’ I freaked out. I didn’t handle it well and that was a mistake but I’ve never…you know…with a guy before. I’m in uncharted territory here. This is totally off book for me.” The smallest laugh escapes Cas’ lips where they’re pressed against Dean’s shoulder. “Shut up. I’m trying to have a chick flick moment here. What I’m trying to say is I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m in. This thing; you, me, whatever it is, I’m in.”

“You’re serious?” Cas’ voice is hesitant as he speaks. There’s something in his tone that says he’s afraid to ask in case the answer rips all the hope out from under him.

“Yeah Cas. I’m serious,” Dean replies, tilting Cas’ chin up and pressing a soft chaste kiss to his lips. He’s so uncertain about all of this but the feeling of Cas in his arms sparks something in his belly that he wants desperately to keep feeling. There’s a lot to talk about, that much is clear. There’s still the matter of the things that drove Dean out of his apartment last night, and despite his earlier enthusiasm Dean has some things to work through when it comes to the idea of getting naked with another man but Cas is home, he knows that now, and he’s not going to walk away from that so easily. Here and now with his best friend closer than ever Dean is almost grateful for the ghosts he’s been plagued by, the ones that tormented him through sleepless nights and mocked him during the day. If it weren’t for them, he might have never found his way into Cas’ arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this concludes the majority of the story, and I certainly could have left it here. Most of the details are tied up and the tale is told, but there IS an epilogue to be posted Saturday that I promise you won't want to miss. My lovely beta may have screamed at me when I sent it to her. Thanks again for all your lovely comments, and sorry not sorry for those of you who have been frightened by this work. I love it.


	19. June 20th, 4:27 pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, ladies and gents! End of the line!

“Is that the last box?” Cas calls wearily from the kitchen. There’s a multitude of cartons and bins making a labyrinth from the front door to where Cas is standing. Dean sets the box he’s carrying down on the least precarious looking pile and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of one dusty hand.

“Yeah the truck’s empty. I think there’s some stuff in the trunk of your car still but we can grab it later.” He makes his way through the maze of boxes to the kitchen where Cas is unpacking dishes and cookware with the determined look of a man on a mission. “It’s bigger than your old kitchen,” he says, and reaches in to the nearly empty fridge for a cold beer. Dean may not have moved his own stuff much over the last decade since he left John’s house and struck out on his own, but he’s helped enough other people move to know that the first thing you do is put beer in the fridge, which is why he did just that three hours ago. There is nothing better than an ice cold beer after a long day fighting with couches that don’t quite fit through doorways and trying to figure out which one of the ten thousand boxes the TV remote got tossed in. It doesn’t quite make moving a fun experience, but beer helps.

“Do you know where your phone is?” Cas tucks a stack of plates into one of the cupboards and collapses the box they were in, jamming it into another box full of flattened boxes. “I think we should order pizza before one of us dies of starvation.” It’s the best idea Dean has heard all day.

“I think I left it in the car.” Dean makes his way back out front. The shrubs to either side of the door need some attention, and the grass hasn’t been mowed in a couple weeks, but this place is paradise in Dean’s eyes. There’s a garage to park his baby in, although its currently full of things and it won’t be home to a car until after they’re done unpacking, and there’s a yard and a place to put a barbeque. It’s further away from the city than Dean would have originally thought he’d be comfortable with, that’s true, but now that he’s standing on the front step surveying the peeling paint on the window trim and the moss on the roof, he can’t deny it’s exactly where he wants to be. They got a pretty good deal on the place and it has everything that Dean has been missing in his terrible apartment for all these years, but most importantly, it’s theirs.

When he’s back in the house with his cell phone in hand, he can hear Cas singing to himself as he unpacks the kitchen. Dean’s staying the heck out of there. That’s Cas’ domain. He can unpack it exactly how he wants and Dean’s not going to protest a single thing. All the kitchen stuff is Cas’ anyway.

 

When the pizza is gone and there are at least a few feet of space to manoeuvre in, Dean sets about unpacking some of the boxes. The bookshelves on either side of the TV are reserved for DVD’s, they’ve decided, so the plan is to find where those boxes have gotten to and get them out of the way. If he was a clever man he would have labelled things with some kind of system. He did not. Most of the boxes are unlabelled and the ones that are all bear Cas’ neat handwriting. He finds two boxes of movies that Cas packed and labelled but it’s far from all of the combined collection so the hunt begins. Dean sets his beer down on the few inches of clear space on the coffee table and starts cutting open packing tape with a pocket-knife. Box after box he opens and rejects, forming somewhat neater stacks along the wall while he searches for the ones that will complete his task. Before he finds any more DVDs, he happens upon a box full of books. He should have known this before he opened it because there’s a label on the side that says “books” in Cas’ tidy lettering, but he’s tired from a day of heaving furniture and he doesn’t really pay attention.

On the top of the box is a book he doesn’t recall ever having seen before. It’s got a plain leather cover with no title and the spine is blank as well. It’s not the box he’s been looking for but now Dean’s curiosity is piqued.

“Hey Cas!” Dean’s voice reverberates off the bare walls as he makes his way through the house in search of Cas. The floorplan is still unfamiliar but he hears movement from somewhere down the hallway, the master bedroom maybe.

“In here,” Cas calls. When Dean follows the sound of his voice he finds that he was correct about the location. Cas is just settling the last pillow on the bed when he walks in.

“What’s this?” Dean asks, passing him the book as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Cas handles the book gently, turning it over in his hands without looking up. He’s lost in thought for a moment before he sits down as well, so close that his thigh brushes up against Dean’s.

“This,” Cas says with levity in his voice, “is a scrapbook.” Cas sets the book down on his lap and opens the first page with careful fingers. “I made this years ago. It’s nothing important,” his words say, but his tone carries something different. Dean watches silently as he turns pages, his eyes casting over photos he remembers and other he’s never seen before. There’s shots from high school, including one of the pair of them in formal wear before Prom that Dean would rather light on fire than ever see again. Cas had rented a tuxedo and even in the captured memory he’s awkward in it. The pants are just a little too long and he doesn’t look comfortable. Dean borrowed one of John’s old suits. It fit surprisingly well considering it wasn’t tailored for him at all. The entire night had been a disappointing endeavour in Dean’s opinion.

“That was a terrible night,” Dean muses. “What are the odds of both of us getting stood up?” His laugh is soft and casual. Cas loves the way he laughs; loves it more now because it was absent for so long. He loves the way it fills up rooms as it spills freely from his mouth, the way it booms with the punchline of a joke, the way it symbolizes the light crawling back into every corner of Dean’s existence when he spent so long cowering in the dark. These days it’s easily Cas’ favourite thing.

Dean’s laughter returned quickly after that night in January. The honest revelation of Cas’ love, and the startling comprehension that he returned it, lifted a weight from his shoulders with impeccable ease. Dean smiled when he woke in the mornings, always warm and snug cocooned under the soft down comforter of Cas’ big bed, wrapped securely in Cas arms as he begged for just five more minutes before dragging himself away to start the day. Sleep came easily now too, though it took Dean a long time to admit that it had nothing to do with the location and everything to do with company. He never spent another night in that old apartment. It wasn’t strictly a conscious decision, but somehow after that first night drifting off with the warmth of Cas beside him, and the first morning waking up pressed together with limbs entangled, Dean couldn’t imagine falling asleep any other way. So he didn’t.

“I didn’t get stood up,” Cas replies after a moment, and Dean eyes him suspiciously.

“No, I remember. You told me that Ashley Wallace was your date but then she showed up with some asshole from the football team.” Dean leans in and presses a playful kiss to Cas’ cheek. “How someone could stand you up is beyond me. Didn’t get it back then either. You always were a catch.”

Cas smiles sadly. “I never asked anyone to prom,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes with his own. “I…I had someone in mind but he already had a date. Just my luck though, his date ditched him and I got to spend the night with the person I wanted to anyway.” Dean barks out a laugh, full and throaty, and wraps his arm around Cas’ shoulder.

“You’re too fuckin’ cute,” he says, making Cas blush. Dean never suspected any of this but now that he knows Cas has been in love with him for so long everything in their shared past is shown through a new filter. He’s learning so much from the memories. Every conversation brings him new understanding. Some of it lifts him up; he gets to see his entire past through the eyes of someone who’s watched him with love for all these years instead of through his own dark and world-weary view. Some of it makes him sad. In his ignorance he’s done and said so many things over the years that must have cut Cas so deep and yet he never said a word. There’s so much of it he wishes he could take back, but Cas won’t hear a word of apology. _I’ve got you_ now _, Dean. I don’t need the past_ , he says. Dean honestly believes he means it.

They flip through the scrapbook together for a long while, idly turning pages and commenting on the stories behind photos. Dean was right. Cas did use heavy bond paper and acid free ink. There are considerably fewer stickers than he would have anticipated if you’d asked him for the over/under on that particular stat, but the pictures are definitely captioned with dates and locations and short summaries of the events. At first he’s surprised he’s never seen this book before, considering how much effort Cas put into it, but the longer they spend looking at it the less that seems reasonable. The majority of the pictures are of the two of them together; that could probably be explained by the closeness of their friendship over the years but Dean knows now that’s not the whole story. This was Cas’ way of capturing the memories that mattered to him when he thought he’d never have his feelings returned.

Dean sees a lot of pictures he doesn’t recognize, but there’s one he’s seen recently that jumps out the moment it catches his eye. It’s Cas’ 21st birthday again, the same shot Dean found tucked in that one box in the back of his closet.

“I’m an idiot,” Dean mumbles, and Cas looks at him in confusion. “That’s what you were saying, right when this picture was taken. There was that girl, I don’t remember her name, and she invited me back to her place but I didn’t go because I didn’t want to bail on your birthday. You called me an idiot. Said I should have gone with her.”

Cas smiles. His eyes are bright and his features soft. “Yeah,” he says. “But you’re my idiot.” The scrapbook slips from his lap and falls to the floor as he cradles Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him with a passion that should not belong to someone who’s expended as much energy as Cas has today. He’s inexhaustible when it comes to Dean though. Dean is learning this anew every day. They’re splayed out on the bed before Dean knows what’s happening, Cas’ knee pressed between his thighs and his hand working it’s way under the hem of his tee-shirt. Dean is sweaty and gross and tired from a day of moving and he wants a shower but the second their lips meet he wants Cas more. Always wants Cas more.

Cas’ fingers find Dean’s nipple, twisting and teasing and making Dean moan against his mouth. Cas isn’t wasting any time. He’s going for all the sweet spots, the sure-fire ways to get Dean as riled up as possible, as fast as possible, and Dean’s not going to tell him to slow down. Not tonight. Any other day he’d whisper softly, _slow down baby, we got all night._ But today he knows neither of them has the stamina for a long, slow tease. So instead he gives himself over to every touch of Cas’ fingers and lets himself become needy and pliant beneath him on the bed. Cas hums softly, pleased with the impact he’s having, and grinds his hip against Dean’s cock as his tongue plunges into Dean’s mouth for a wet and filthy kiss.

Dean is aching for it, he realizes. His body is sore and tired, weak from moving furniture, but he wants Cas so bad he can feel the need in his bones. He clutches at Cas’ hips, drawing him close as can be as they move together, and as Cas drops his head to nip at Dean’s throat, Dean gets an idea that’s out of his mouth before he has a chance to think on it any further.

“I want you to top tonight,” Dean breathes, his voice raw with lust. The words startle him and Cas both, but Dean wouldn’t take them back for anything in the world. That’s exactly what he wants. Cas goes still above him, his head coming up to look Dean in the eyes as he speaks.

“Are you sure?” Dean nods in reply, but Cas asks again. “Really sure? I mean we’ve never…we don’t have to…” Dean stops him from carrying on with a well-placed kiss.

“I’m sure Cas. I want it. C’mon. Please baby?” That’s what does it for Cas, in the end. It’s so close to begging, the way the plea comes out of Dean’s mouth with a hint of desperation. It may or may not be exaggerated for Cas’ benefit. Dean will never tell. Oh sure, he wants this. He’s not lying about that. But he learned a long time ago that the best way to make Cas do things for himself is to make him think he’s really doing things for Dean, and he’ll use that to his advantage until the end of time if he can keep getting away with it.

Cas lets out a low chuckle and stands to take his shirt off. There are bruises on his ribs from an unfortunate incident involving a coffee table and some poor communication between them and he’s already covered in a soft sheen of sweat. Dean shucks his own shirt and reaches up greedily, drawing Cas back close to his body and nuzzling against his neck. Stubble catches on stubble as they kiss and caress. As they move together, responding to whispered words and supple fingertips with equal enthusiasm, Dean can’t bring his mind to recall how he could ever have denied wanting this when Cas was right in front of him for so long. It’s hard to imagine a time when he wanted something else now that he knows what it’s like to explore Cas’ body, and the anticipation that comes with the idea of reversing their roles in the bedroom for the first time only serves to underline the understanding that he missed out on so much.

Cas puts all his attention into getting Dean worked up now that he knows what waits for him at the end. It’s not that Cas has ever lamented their arrangement. He’s never really said anything at all on the subject, but it’s the way he’s _pointedly_ never said it that has made it obvious to Dean he’s only not bringing it up because he thinks Dean doesn’t want to cross that line. And Dean didn’t want to, not at first. But the longer he’s with Cas, the more he gets to know him (in the biblical sense, because clearly Dean knows everything about him already in the conversational sense), the less weird he’s felt at the idea of switching things up and letting Cas fuck him. The way Cas lavishes attention on him with his hands and his mouth and any other part of his body he can use to bring Dean pleasure has always been selfless and giving and undeniably delicious. It’s time, Dean decides, to let him take. It’s Cas, _his_ Cas. How can Dean possibly deny him this? How can Dean deny him anything?

 

For the second time tonight, Dean blurts out words he didn’t plan on but has no desire to take back once he hears them spoken.

“I love you, Cas,” he murmurs, and punctuates the statement with a kiss that leaves their lips bruising pink and their breath short.

“I know,” Cas replies softly, and Dean laughs.

“Did you just Han Solo me?”

“Ok so maybe I unintentionally quoted Star Wars, but what I mean is, it’s obvious. You don’t have to say it, because I already know.” His hands slide down the lines of Dean’s body as he speaks, opening the button and fly of his jeans and slipping inside to tease at the waistband of Dean’s shorts.

“Well you better get used to hearing it. I got a whole bunch of wasted time to make up for.” Dean’s breath catches in his throat as Cas hooks his fingers into Dean’s clothes and drags them down his body, tracing lines over his hips and down his thighs with fingertips. Dean lies naked and exposed on the bed and he feels a blush rising on his cheeks because Cas just stands there staring at him for what feels like an eternity.

“What?” Dean asks finally.

“I can’t just look at you? There has to be a bigger reason?”

“Not when you’re all the way over there and I can’t touch you,” Dean replies petulantly and reaches out a hand to motion Cas closer. Cas gives him one last long, hungry look before quickly ridding himself of his own pants and climbing back on to the bed.

Cas displays a hunger that is so very uncharacteristic and it takes Dean somewhat by surprise. He’s never been passive in the bedroom but up until tonight Dean’s felt a desire to take the lead. Maybe it’s the fact that this is new territory for them. Maybe Dean’s nerves are getting the better of him. Maybe it’s just exhaustion. Whatever the reason, Dean finds himself melting under Cas’ hands, almost entirely dominated by the passionate attentions of his boyfriend.

“Shit,” Dean exclaims as an unpleasant thought occurs to him. “I have no idea what box the stuff from the nightstand is in. Do we even have any lube?”

“Way ahead of you.” Cas rolls to the side, leaving Dean missing the warmth of his body and pulls open the drawer on the nightstand. “Always unpack the important stuff first.” Dean glances over and he can see the drawer is stocked with a couple boxes of condoms and a bottle of the lube they’d mutually decided was their favourite.

“You think of everything,” Dean says with a laugh and drags a hand down Cas’ ribs, careful not to press on the bruises he’s earned from a day of moving. Cas sighs as Dean’s hand moves lower and trails a fingertip along the length of his cock. He laughs softly against Cas’ mouth, amused as always with how responsive Cas is. Cas moans and writhes against Dean’s hand for a moment, letting Dean tease him until he’s achingly hard before pulling himself away and perching between Dean’s thighs. He runs one hand up and down the hard muscle of Dean’s leg while he reaches for the lube.

“You’re sure?” Cas asks, his eyes searching Dean’s face for any sign of reservation. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes up on to his elbows.

“Oh my god Cas, I appreciate the concern and all but seriously you need to stop asking and just fuck me already!”

Cas doesn’t ask again. Instead, his reply is a single slick finger slipped between Dean’s cheeks and nudging at his entrance. Dean gives himself over to the feel of it as Cas slips in more slowly than he thought possible. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he would have imagined, but there’s certainly pain mixed with the pleasure and the burn of it keeps him focused until his body starts to relax. Cas takes his sweet time, sliding and twisting his finger in and out so very slowly. Dean grows accustomed to the rhythm of it gradually and starts to let out soft little moans designed to show his pleasure and urge Cas on.

He’s distracted from the addition of a second finger by Cas’ tongue flicking across the head of his cock. Dean groans and resists the urge to tangle his fingers in Cas’ hair and guide that mouth right where he wants it. Cas would let him, if he wanted to. But Cas is scissoring his fingers and the stretch feels so amazing that he’s fairly certain he’d be coming before they even get started if Cas were to wrap his lips around Dean’s cock at this exact moment, so he doesn’t. He just lets himself enjoy the attention, the little teasing licks that Cas gives him as he adds a third slick finger and murmurs praise against Dean’s skin.

It feels like an eternity of pleasure before Cas decides he’s ready. Dean has no concept of time to tell him if that’s true or not, but it certainly feels that way. Finally, Cas rolls a condom on and lines himself up, watching Dean’s face as he does. Dean nearly reminds him that yes, this is what he wants, but Cas doesn’t ask, and the words die on his lips as Cas pushes in achingly slow.

When he sinks in all the way and they’re pressed as close together as can be, Cas drapes himself over Dean and kisses him, slow and soft and tender, and it’s only after Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ neck and his legs around Cas’ hips that he starts to move.

It’s like nothing Dean has ever experienced. Cas moves his hips languorously, a lazy motion that’s more roll than thrust. Even so, it’s overwhelming and Dean finds himself clinging to Cas with his lips parted and his eyes wide, only able to respond to the intense sensations with startled gasps.

Cas’ words pull him back to himself. “You with me babe?” he asks, his voice low, and he lets his lips drag down Dean’s throat.

“Oh my god Cas, you feel…you feel…” Dean can’t find the words. He stops trying. He tells Cas what he means with his body instead. Dean tightens his legs around Cas and angles his hips upwards to match Cas’ rhythm, and tries to catch Cas’ lips in a kiss.

“Good?” Cas supplies for him, and Dean nods frantically. Good is an understatement. Good barely begins to cover it. Good is a single candle flame compared to the blazing heat of arousal and pleasure that engulfs his entire body. “I wanna make this good for you,” Cas’ murmured words are hot against Dean’s skin.

And god does he ever. Now that it’s established that Dean is enjoying himself, Cas builds up speed with every roll of his hips until he’s driving into Dean relentlessly. If Dean thought it was bliss before, with the lazy roll and slow gentle thrusts, he’s died and gone to heaven now. This is it, the end of Dean Winchester. He’s ruined for any other kind of sex. Nothing will ever compare to this again so long as he lives. He finds his voice again and cries out wordlessly, his fingers digging into Cas’ shoulders, holding him close like he’s afraid Cas will stop. Moments later when Cas pulls Dean’s arms from around his shoulders and sits himself up, Dean is disappointed until he feels what the change in angle does. Cas pushes Dean’s knees up so he’s folded almost in half and fucks into him, hard and deep, and there’s nothing Dean can do to stop the words that it draws from his lips as Cas’ cock thrusts into his prostate.

“Fuck Cas, so good, yeah, just like that baby,” he groans out. It only serves to excite Cas more, hearing Dean’s enthusiasm vocalized, and he doesn’t slow his thrusts, doesn’t let up his intensity. He looks absolutely wrecked. His breath escapes through parted lips and his eyes peer out at Dean through heavy lids, screened by his long eyelashes, his hair wild as always. Dean wants to tell him how much he loves that, the way Cas’ hair never looks tidy even when he’s tried to tame it, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is, “Fuck fuck fuck!!”

Cas doesn’t reply but it’s obvious he likes what he hears. A smile tugs one side of his mouth upwards and his fingers bite into Dean’s calves where he’s gripping forcefully. Dean knows he’s getting close, can feel it building in his belly, and he glides one hand down the sweat-slick planes of his own chest to take his cock in hand while the other grips the sheets in a futile attempt to keep himself steady. Cas feels so amazing driving into him but the addition of his fist enveloping his dick is almost too much.

“Yeah,” Cas growls. His voice is like whiskey and honey and gravel, and it does things to Dean, things that would make him blush like a schoolgirl if he tried to explain them, so he’ll just go with his boyfriend is fucking hot and leave it at that. “You’re so fucking tight, Dean,” he whispers hoarsely, making Dean shudder at the sheer force of the desire in his voice. “You look so good like this. Can’t wait to see what you look like when you come while I’m fucking you.” Dean nearly chokes on the next breath he tries to take. Cas has never had much to say in the way of dirty talk and he’s downright startled by how fucking hot it is.

Dean speeds his hand up, flying up and down his cock, thumb flicking over the head, and in no time he’s coming hot and slick over his fingers and onto his belly. His eyelids flutter and he makes a filthy noise, something low and visceral, and Cas loves it.

“Fuck, there it is,” he moans. Dean is blissed out and drifting, breathy little moans drifting out as Cas rides him through his orgasm. All the muscles in his legs spark like fireworks and his ears ring with the force of it but Cas doesn’t stop. Instead he watches intently as Dean writhes beneath him and whimpers softly, staring like he never wants to look away from the sight of it. He doesn’t break eye contact until he drops down on shaky arms to kiss Dean again, fiercely and passionately. Dean kisses him back, pawing at Cas’ body and now too frantic and driven to be mindful of the bruises he avoided earlier, and when he slides his hands down to grip Cas’ hips, his rhythm falters as he comes.

Dean knows full well what Cas’ face looks like when his climax hits him. He doesn’t even have to be looking at him right now to know the details. His features soften into something even more beautiful than usual while the rest of him tenses, and his sparkling blue eyes slide shut as he lets it wash over him. Dean knows the look well enough that even though he loves it, he doesn’t need to break his lips away to gaze upon it as Cas goes still above him, and he lets Cas’ mouth drag across his jaw as he slumps to the side and holds Dean close, gasping for breath.

“Good?” Cas asks breathlessly, carding his fingers through the short strands of Dean’s hair. Dean hums against his throat.

“I had no idea what I was missing out on,” Dean admits, and Cas laughs softly.

“That’s a bit of a theme for you, isn’t it?” He kisses Dean’s sweaty forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.

“Fuck you,” Dean replies, but there’s no heat behind it. It’s not like Cas is exactly wrong.

 

Dean is awake for much longer than it takes Cas to fall asleep. The first night in a new place when he was growing up was always one of his least favourite. It signified the end of everything he’d managed to find comfort in wherever they’d been living before, and the beginning of the awkward phase where he didn’t have a routine or friends or a sense of home. It’s different now with Cas curled up next to him, but the old habit is still there and it takes him a while to shake the feeling.

He listens to the soft snuffling noises Cas makes in his sleep as they blend with the quiet, comforting noises of the house. There are crickets somewhere nearby; they’re faint but unmistakeable, and someone’s cat meows a few houses away. The neighbourhood is full of the kind of noises that make a house feel like a home. Dean finally lets it lull him off to sleep, but not before he leans over and presses a soft kiss to Cas’ cheek. Of course it’s home. It’s where Cas sleeps.

 

Castiel wakes before Dean does in the morning, which is no surprise whatsoever. Dean has never been a morning person. Cas knows that. He’s known that for years. It’s probably safe to assume he has at least a couple of hours before Dean wakes up on his own and as much as they should probably get a jump on unpacking, he just can’t bear to wake his boyfriend, so he slips on a robe and traipses out to the kitchen to make coffee. That was one thing he made sure got unpacked and set up before they went to bed last night. If Dean doesn’t get a cup of coffee he’ll be useless, and Cas isn’t going to try to deny that he’s almost as bad.

He’s daunted by the amount of work before them. Some of the furniture needs reassembly which will have to wait until Dean can assist. Cas is perfectly capable of working with his hands but he knows from experience that attaching the legs to a kitchen table without someone to steady them for you is an exercise in futility and only leads to pain and stripped screws. While the coffee percolates he tidies up a little, discarding the empty pizza box in the recycling bin on the back porch and hanging up Dean’s car keys on a hook by the door. Maybe here he’ll be able to get Dean in to the habit of hanging them up himself but he’s not optimistic.

On his way back towards the kitchen, he picks up Dean’s leather coat off the back of the couch and hangs it in the closet in the entryway. He’s not surprised Dean still wears that coat. He doesn’t talk about his father much, and Castiel knows first-hand how strained the relationship was but Dean loved the man. He’ll never forget how heartbroken Dean was when John died. He hid behind the anger but Cas always saw the pain behind it. He lets his fingers linger on the lapel of the jacket as he hangs it up, giving the garment a rueful shake of his head before turning away. Castiel would have some choice words for John Winchester if he ever had the chance to speak to him again. He knows you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead but the grave doesn’t erase a person’s mistakes in favour of painting nicer memories.

Once the coffee has finished percolating, he pours himself a cup and takes it in to the bathroom. His muscles are sore and tired from moving furniture and if he’s going to do it all over again today he needs to rinse away the weariness with hot water and replace it with the false vigour of caffeine. Cas tests the water distrustfully, letting it run for far longer than he would have done at his own apartment. You never know what you’re getting with the first shower in a new place. Thankfully, the water pressure is strong and the temperature stays constant, so he sets his mug on the ledge of the tub and steps under the spray, sighing contentedly when the heat seeps into his skin and starts to work its magic.

The only time Cas’ hair is ever manageable is when it’s too sodden to stand up every which way. He uses more shampoo than is strictly necessary and revels in the smell of it, fruity and bright, as the suds cascade over his shoulders and down into the drain. He stops just short of singing, but only because he’s not sure yet how much the sound will carry in their new house and he doesn’t want to wake Dean up. He contents himself with humming the melody of classic rock songs, the ones Dean plays on repeat in the Impala, the ones he knows he’ll be subjected to endlessly when they drive out to California this time next year for Sam and Jess’ wedding. Cas could probably raise a protest if he wanted to, convince Dean to let him hook up his iPod or something, but he probably won’t bother. He knows how much Dean loves that car just the way it is.

Cas lets himself stay in the shower after he’s done washing and drinks the rest of his coffee while the water rushes over him. It’s soothing and invigorating at the same time. Mentally, he plans out what needs to get done today. Neither of them works for the next week so there’s lots of time to get the details organized, but he’d like to get the bulk of the actual unpacking done right away so they can get settled in. The place is already starting to feel like home even without all their stuff in its rightful places, but Cas isn’t surprised by that. He’s got Dean here with him. He imagines that that could make anywhere feel like home.

When his coffee is finished, he turns off the water and draws back the curtain, wrapping a towel around himself before stepping out onto the mat. He’s forgotten to turn the fan on, leaving the room shrouded in steam. It’s like a sauna, the mist swirling around his ankles as he walks over to the sink to brush his teeth. When he stands in front of the vanity, Cas’ breath catches in his throat.

Scrawled on the mirror in straight block letters are two words. Cas rubs his eyes in disbelief, blinks more times than he can count. He tears his eyes away and strides quickly to the bedroom. Dean is playing a joke on him, he decides, and it’s not particularly funny given the events that finally drove them together, but he’ll berate his little shit of a boyfriend and they’ll laugh about it later and that will be that.

Dean’s still asleep when he reaches the bedroom. He hasn’t even moved since Cas got out of bed. He emits a rumbling snore and twitches in his sleep as Cas stands in the doorway clad only in his towel. Cas returns to the bathroom much more slowly than he left it and when he reaches the mirror the words are still right where he left them.

_YOU’RE WELCOME_

Cas stares at the message until the mist in the room clears and the temperature equalizes with the rest of the house, but they don’t fade from view. He remembers clearly the stories Dean told him that night when he came running, frightened out of his apartment by something he couldn’t explain and Cas couldn’t bring himself to believe. He’d been convinced that Dean had imagined all of it (though he’d never come right out and said it), and since Dean had never spent another night back in his old apartment after their first night together it had become a non-issue. Whatever the problem was, it had remained in that decrepit apartment and Dean had left his terror behind within those crumbling walls. Only now it seems that’s not the case. Cas can’t make sense of the message though, no matter how long he stares at it. He’s not sure what to do with this information. His course of action is decided when he hears Dean getting out of bed in the other room and on instinct he swipes the message away with the edge of his towel. Dean doesn’t need to see this. Not now. Not ever. This place is supposed to be a new start for both of them.

Cas finally gets around to brushing his teeth just as Dean walks into the room, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” Cas greets him, toothbrush in hand. He smiles at Dean, hoping it masks his panic.

“Morning Cas,” Dean replies with a grin. “How long were you going to let me sleep?”

“I was going to wake you up in a few minutes,” Cas lies. He was going to do nothing of the sort. “There’s coffee made,” he says, leaning in to kiss Dean softly on the cheek before sticking the toothbrush back in his mouth to finish brushing.

“Awesome,” Dean says, and saunters out of the bathroom on bare feet to track down his first dose of caffeine in the new home.

When Cas turns back around to spit out the toothpaste in his mouth, there’s a new message to greet him.

_Be good to him. He loves you._

This script is gentler this time. The letters are softer and smaller, and they don’t carry the feeling of shouting like the previous message did. Despite his fear, they have Cas smiling. Of course he’ll be good to Dean. He’s never wanted anything else. He loves Dean with every fibre of his being and he has since he was an awkward, scrawny, bookish teenager. He’s loved Dean since he first knew him, and he will for the rest of his days. He doesn’t need a ghostly message on a mirror to tell him to be good to Dean. He couldn’t ever be anything else.

Cas clears the words from the mirror with his towel, then hangs it on the rack before leaving the room. He makes waffles in the waffle iron Dean bought him for Christmas and they talk over breakfast about what should go where and whether they need any new furniture and who’s going to tackle what project. They discuss paint colours and plans for the back yard and how long it will be before they can have people over for a barbeque. Cas doesn’t bring up the mirror. He doesn’t think he ever will.

 

Cas spends the entire week of unpacking looking over his shoulder and waiting for something else to happen, but it doesn’t. Eventually the feeling passes and their house gradually becomes their home. They make new memories to add to the old and they make a new life together that is more than the sum of what each of them brings to it.

Friday nights are still movies and beer but now there’s no question of where they’ll meet. Dean still likes Cas’ cooking better than his own and he keeps swearing he’s going to let Cas teach him how to make lasagne and pancakes and cinnamon rolls, but Cas knows it’s not going to happen. He also knows that the Marvel versus DC debate is going to be deadlocked until the end of time. He’s known Dean long enough to know how stubborn he can be. After all, it took a haunting to get him to admit he’s been in love with Cas for ten years plus. He doesn’t think there’s anything in the universe strong enough to get him to change his mind on something so important as comic book franchises, and if he’s honest, he likes Dean best just the way he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it then. The journey is finished. I'd like to, once again, thank my amazing beta [Petrichor_Amber](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor_Amber) for her efforts in making this a much tighter work, helping me sort out the details, flailing at me in the margins of edited chapters, and for the AMAZING inspiration she provided that led me to ultimately decide how the story should end. I couldn't have done it without her and I wouldn't have wanted to.   
> I've received so many amazing comments as this story has come out, and I want you to know that I loved each and every one of them. It fills me with joy when I get this little notification that someone has liked what I've done, and I'm not going to lie, there's a sick sense of joy in knowing a story borne of a nightmare that cost me several nights of sleep has managed to frighten so many of you. I'm not a ghost story person usually - I'm way too easily frightened-but I've slept so much better since I started writing this so maybe it's time to start channeling my fears into fics. It seems to have worked ok here!  
> I've also had one lovely reader request that I write a sequel. At this point in time, I can't say that I feel the story leaves itself open for one. It is, however, still so fresh on the page that I also can't say that won't change when it's had time to temper. All things are possible. I have a veritable mountain of unfinished works I should probably devote attention to first, and I certainly don't want to get anyone's hopes up, but I will promise that I'll think about it. If I see a way that the story could and should be continued, then you have my word that I'll try to write it  
> Thank you again, lovely readers. Your flailing comments give me life <3

**Author's Note:**

> Do you hate me a whole bunch for scaring the crap out of you? Come yell at me about it on tumblr! Shennanigoats.tumblr.com


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